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COWRIGHT 


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THE PAINTED WOODS 



V 

THE PAINTED WOODS 


By 

NEVIL HENSHAWi/ 
n 

Author of 

The Inheritance of Jean Trouve, Etc. 




INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 




Copyright, 1924 j 

By The Bobbs-Merrill Company ^ 

T2.3 
' % 


A short version of this novel, under the title Jeanne of the 
Deep Swamp, ran serially in OUTING during 1914 and 
1915, and was copyrighted by the publishers of that 
periodical. 


Printed in the United States of America 

APR-5’2U 

©ClA7.78708i^ 


To 

Jack and Bun 


■.i 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

I Jean Fagot .ii 

II The Lily Trap ..... ... 17 

III A Word in Time. . . 23 

IV A Night at Lonson’s 36 

V One Way Out of a Quarrel . ,. 45 

VI The Cost of Carelessness.56 

VII A Song and a Girl ....... .63 

VIII Camp Bon. 69 

IX Jeanne.81 

X A Departure and an Arrival .... 88 

XI The Stage is Set ........ 95 

XII A Swamp Fete ......... 100 

XIII The Race .107 

XIV The Flouting of Duron . . . . 115 

XV A Truce.122 

XVI The Meeting ..132 

XVII An Affair of Pirogues ....... 140 

XVIII The Hearing.. 151 

XIX Jeanne’s Defiance . r. ,. 167 

XX Waiting.. . . . 179 

XXI In the Moonlight. . . 189 

XXII Fagot Takes Command .... -. . 197 

XXIII Voltaire Bon’s Theory ,. 1. 215 

XXIV The Trail.. . . . 229 

XXV Nature Repays ....... ., ^ . 247 

XXVI The Proof . . . . . . ... .. . . 2^ 

XXVII Sunset . . . . . 274 

XXVIII Outside c- r. . . . 279 




























THE PAINTED WOODS 


THE PAINTED WOODS 

CHAPTER I 

JEAN FAGOT 

I JEAN LE BOSSU, first knew the Fagots 
amid that great stretch of forest which, in my 
own corner of Southwestern Louisiana, is called 
the Grand Woods. 

At best it is lonesome among the trees. Those 
who live there are something more than neigh¬ 
bors. 

At this time the Fagots numbered three. First 
there was Jean Fagot, the father, who was a 
wood-chopper by trade. Then came a son and a 
daughter. The mother I knew only through the 
talk of the family. A woman of Spanish extrac¬ 
tion, she had died upon the occasion of the 
daughter's birth. 


II 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


During the time that he was in the woods. 
Fagot and I became fast friends. Our huts were 
not far apart, and often in the long winter even¬ 
ings we would visit each other. Thus I came to 
see much of Fagot that one less intimate would 
have missed. He was a small mild man, with a 
great shock of stiff bristly hair, and one of those 
deep rumbling voices that are often so strangely 
bestowed upon just such quiet little men. At his 
work he was clever and industrious, and of ambi¬ 
tions he had but one. Toward this, the success and 
happiness of his children, he bent every energy. 

Of these children, Jean Pierre, the son, was 
fast approaching manhood. He was a dark hand¬ 
some youth, very quick of eye and hand, and 
from his mother he had inherited his full share of 
Spanish pride and temper. On account of his 
brown skin they called him ‘‘Dago” when first he 
came to the woods, but the name did not stick. 
Or rather I should say that, due to Jean Pierre’s 
ability with his fists, the wood-folk did not stick 
to the name. 


12 


JEAN FAGOT 


The daughter, Jeanne, was only a little thing at 
that time. Like Jean Pierre she was dark skinned 
and handsome, and in her great black eyes there 
was already abundant promise of pride and pas¬ 
sion to come. It was strange that these children 
possessed so much of their mother, so little of 
their father. Gentle, simple old Fagot was like 
some thrush that has fledged a brace of hawks. 

But Fagot, father-like, could never be brought 
to realize this difference. The children were dark, 
perhaps, but this was their only heritage from 
their mother. In all other respects they were 
exactly like himself. Had he not, foreseeing this, 
baptized them Jean and Jeanne? They would 
continue like him if only to show the reason for 
their names. 

Thus, when, at the age of twenty, Jean Pierre 
became involved in a serious affair. Fagot’s sur¬ 
prise was only equaled by his dismay. Of the 
affair itself, a few words will suffice. 

It occurred one Mardi Gras in a coffee-house at 
Landry where some half drunken idler applied the 

13 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


old term of ‘‘Dago” to Jean Pierre. As was 
usual the boy replied at once with a blow. After 
that it was the old quarrel of kind against kind, 
the townspeople opposing the wood-folk. Thus 
there was a general fight in which knives were 
used as freely as fists. In the end, when peace 
was finally restored, it was found that the chief 
troublemaker had been seriously wounded. 

Later, when, through neglect, the injured man 
died, all involved in the affair were put on trial. 
Of the lot Jean Pierre only was convicted. There 

I 

was no evidence to show that he had actually 
caused the wound. It was merely proved that he 
had been opposed to the dead man at the beginning 
of the melee. Jean Pierre swore that he had used 
nothing but his fists; that he had not carried so 
much as a pen knife. Nevertheless they sent him 
to prison for ten years. 

It was hard for one of Fagot’s family pride. 
Yet he behaved with admirable courage. 

“Jean Pierre will show them when he comes 
out,” he said to me, his big voice trembling piti- 

14 


JEAN FAGOT 

fully with the words. ‘‘He is innocent, and the 
truth can not remain hidden forever. I can only 
count the time until he is out again. First it will 
be the years, then the months, and then the days. 
They say that if one behaves one need not serve 
out a full term, and my son is a good boy. I shall 
be here waiting for him, and he will find his ax in 
its accustomed corner. Also it will be as bright 
as when he went away.” 

So Fagot kept on for two years, polishing the 
ax and counting off time. Then there came bad 
news from Baton Rouge. Jean Pierre, accus¬ 
tomed to the clean open life of the woods, had 
been unable to stand his confinement. It had 
broken his heart, and he had died. 

It was the last blow, and Fagot’s supply of 
courage had been taxed to the utmost. For two 
weeks he shut himself up in his hut, and in that 
time his dark bristly hair became streaked with 
white, like the ash-tips of a burned off marsh. 
Then, one afternoon when I was considering how 
best I might comfort him, he called to me from 

15 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


outside my door. He seemed utterly crushed and 
broken, and the small bundle of household pos¬ 
sessions that he carried announced his intention 
even before he spoke. 

‘T am going, Bossu,” said he. “Also, before I 
leave, I wish to thank you. You stood by me 
bravely in my trouble, and I will not forget.” 

“Where are you bound. Fagot ?” I asked him. 

He shrugged, sweeping his arm in a circle. 

“Anywhere, everywhere,” he replied. “I seek 
only to escape from memory. As long as the 
trees grow we shall not starve—the little Jeanne 
and I.” 

Thus he departed, his ax upon his shoulder, his 
small, dark-faced daughter trotting along at his 
side. 


CHAPTER II 

THE LILY TRAP 

I T WAS perhaps some ten years later that I 
determined, one spring, to make a visit to the 
swamps. As a youth I had been a swamper. 
That was when I was tall and straight, and men 
called me by my name of Jean. Then a tree fell 
upon me, and I became Le Bossu, and made my 
home in the Grand Woods. 

It is good in the woods, yet one, thinking of 
the scenes of his youth, must ever wish to return 
to them. Thus, when this spring brought a great 
drought that ruined the hunting, I made up my 
mind that I would go back to the cypress and see 
those things that I had known so long ago. 

That was an expedition—that one to the 
swamps. Taking what money I had, I made my 

17 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


way across the prairies to St. Pierre and the 
Teche. There I bought a pirogue and, loading 
it with such supplies as I might need, I set forth 
au large upon the bayou. 

From the first I had no definite goal. I only 
drifted with the smooth brown stream, watching 
the life of its banks. Now it was a heron, stand¬ 
ing as straight and as motionless as the rushes 
behind him, again it was an alligator sunning 
himself upon a log; and always there was the 
blue sky above and the water below. 

Also I saw great growths of that lily which is 
called the water hyacinth, where they had anch¬ 
ored themselves to the mud, and stretched out in 
huge mats of green, half blocking the bayou. 
They were new to me then, for they had not been 
long in our country, and they do not thrive upon 
the waters of the coast, being killed by the salt. 

That night I anchored my pirogue alongside a 
stranded bank of the lilies, and when, at dawn, 
the first sunbeams flashed upon the purple of 
their dew-drenched blossoms, it was like some 

i8 


THE LILY TRAP 


glimpse of Paradise. And then, in less than an 
hour, these same hyacinths all but gave me a 
look at Paradise itself. 

It was when, seeing a tow of logs against the 
bayou bank, I stopped to catch my breakfast 
Mooring my pirogue in clear water, I set forth 
across the raft to a spot where the lilies grew 
close and thick—a spot to which I could not 
otherwise have made my way. It was my inten¬ 
tion to part the plants and to fish below them 
for those small sweet perch that one eats at a 
bite. 

Swiftly I ran along the raft forgetting, in my 
haste, my early training. And there, waiting for 
me, was that loose log which is so often the doom 
of the swamper. It was wet and slippery, and it 
turned beneath me like some living thing, hurling 
me against the outer edge, whence I bounded off 
on to the broad green carpet of the lilies. 

Had I not been stunned, the matter would 
have been a simple one. By working carefully, 
I might well have made my way to the raft 

19 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


again. As it was I went straight down—swal¬ 
lowing great mouthfuls of water. 

When I rose, half choked, there was the lilies 
to contend with. I was in a trap of smooth green 
balls, all fringed and spiked with leaves and blos¬ 
soms. 

I could not swim, for there was no water to 
swim in—only the tiny writhing roots that curled 
about me like serpents, dragging me down. 

Thus I sank for the second time, to rise once 
more and clutch at the false support of the lilies 
that were my destruction. Then, as they gave 
way beneath my fingers, I heard a shout and a 
splashing of water. 

‘‘So,’’ I thought to myself. “This death is a 
strange business since I, who have just fallen in, 
imagine that I have been struggling to save my¬ 
self.” And, very slowly, I sank for the last time. 

When I became conscious again, I found my¬ 
self back upon the raft with a man beside me. 
He was a young man, small yet compact, with 
graooth clean-cut features, and calm gray eyes. 


20 


THE LILY TRAP 


That he had been in the bayou was evident, since 
the water ran off him in streams. Yet, for all 
his plight, his look was both pleasant and kindly. 

“Pardon, M'sieu,” said I, “but I would like to 
know if I am dead. I am convinced of the mat¬ 
ter, yet this raft is familiar, and you seem little 
like an angel.” 

At my words he threw back his head and 
laughed—the clear happy laugh that is given 
only to those whose hearts are clean. 

“Never fear, my friend,” he replied. “This is 
the raft that you fell from, and as for myself, I 
am no more an angel than you are a corpse. 

“Yet you were near your end and I also, for 
the current had taken you well under the lilies, 
and you fought hard before I could bring you to 
safety. Be advised by me and do not run again 
upon the logs as, from a distance, I saw you do. 
Each raft has a snare, set and waiting, for the 
first thoughtless one who comes along.” 

“That is true, as I know only too well,” said I. 
“And now for my thanks which—” 


21 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“Let us consider it said/’ he broke in. “It is 
only what you would have done yourself.” 

I agreed. “Yet I will not forget. I 
am Jean Le Bossu.” 

“And I,” said he, “am Marcel Var.” 

After this we sat upon the raft, twisting the 
water from our clothes, and talking. Marcel 
Var, I learned, was a swamper. Just now he was 
free, but that very morning he had been told of a 
place at the camp of Joe Coudron. Perhaps he 
would go there, perhaps not. At all events he 
must be moving on. 

Again I tried to thank him, but he waved the 
matter away. Also he refused my offer of fire 
and breakfast, saying that the sun would dry 
him, and'^that he had eaten a while before. 

And so, having freed his pirogue from the 
bed of lilies, he called '^Adieu/^ and paddled 
away, leaving me to stare after him until he had 
slipped out of sight around a bend of the stream. 


CHAPTER III 


A WORD IN TIME 

M oving on through the tangle of water¬ 
ways, I journeyed lazily until the fields 
and meadows of the cane country gave way to 
long stretches of forest; until these—the solid 
ground swept away from them by the ever-en¬ 
croaching bayou—^yielded their place to the water- 
loving cypress. 

Thus far I had progressed beneath smiling sun¬ 
lit skies. Now, however, as I approached the out¬ 
skirts of the swamp, the weather suddenly 
changed. It was as though Nature, foreseeing 
what was to come, sent forth her warning there 
at the edge of the cypress. 

The storm, which gathered quickly, surprised 
me as I slept away the heat of the afternoon. 

23 


THE PAINTED WOODS 

Less than an hour before I had forsaken the mer¬ 
ciless glare of a cloudless sky for the shelter of a 
clump of willows. Awakening beneath the chill 
touch of a puff of wind, I peered out through the 
green scatter of leaves to find a dusk like that of 
the twilight. Overhead great black masses of 
cloud hung menacingly, and the air was stale and 
exhausted, as though the life had been sucked out 
of it by the elements above. 

One glance at my shelter showed that it would 
not serve for even a passing shower. Also, as I 
rapidly reviewed the morning’s journey, I remem¬ 
bered that I had not passed a single hut upon 
either bank for a good number of miles. True I 
had weathered many storms, but few men will 
submit to a soaking when there is any possibility 
of escape. In addition there was every indica¬ 
tion that the downpour would last throughout the 
night. Slipping out from the willows, I set off 
up-stream at my best pace confident that, through 
the lack of civilization below, I would soon find 
some shelter above. 


A WORD IN TIME 


Once out upon the bayou, I found that I had 
little time. Already the wind-puffs had ruffled 
the water into a myriad of ripples that broke 
against the bow of my pirogue with a soft splash¬ 
ing sound. Far ahead the stream curved outward, 
its banks merging vaguely with the blackness of 
the horizon. Up to that curve there was no sign 
of habitation, the trees growing down without a 
break to the water’s edge. It was a long pull, and 
even as I settled down to it, the first dull thunder 
began to rumble overhead. 

Half-way to the curve there fell a sudden calm. 
The puffs ceased, the ripples smoothed, the thun¬ 
der growled itself into silence. Again the air 
became flat and stale, while all about there hung 
a hush as of expectation. So still was it that I 
could hear distinctly the splash of each tiny drop 
that fell from my upraised paddle. 

‘‘Now for it,” I said to myself, and as I spoke 
the storm broke in an uproar of rain, and wind, 
and rolling thunder. 

It was a deluge such as I had seldom seen. 

25 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Despite the wind the rain came straight down in 
huge splashing drops with a force like that of 
hail. The bayou, whipped into muddy froth, dis¬ 
appeared at once beneath a veil of fine scattered 
spray. 

Instinctively I turned in toward the shore, hug¬ 
ging the protection of the wind-beaten trees. Here 
the air was comparatively clear and, chancing the 
peril of the lightning, I pushed steadily forward 
toward the bend. Once a bolt struck directly in 
front of me, shattering a great cypress as one 
strips a cane stalk. Yet I held my position, pre¬ 
ferring the risk to the full smiting force of the 
rain. 

I made the bend and, pausing in the lee of an¬ 
other willow clump, sought to take my bearings. 
Ahead the bayou widened into a broad, shallow 
reach all lashed and foaming from the storm. The 
near bank as far as I could see presented a series 
of submerged mud flats sparsely grown with 
rushes. Of the far bank I could catch only an 
occasional glimpse of vague writhing tree-tops 
through the thick white wall of the flood. 

26 


A WORD IN TIME 


Then, as drenched and chill I prepared to con¬ 
tinue my journey, the wind tore a sudden rift in 
the downpour and I caught, low down near the 
water's edge, a glint of wet planking. An instant 
later I was out in the stream paddling thankfully 
toward the shelter of which I was now assured. 

The landing, when I reached it, already har¬ 
bored some half-dozen boats and pirogues. It was 
only a narrow platform of flimsy boards built out 
at the edge of a flat, and connected with the bayou 
bank by a single line of planks. These planks 
ended at the foot of a short flight of steps which 
in turn led up to the porch of a squat unpainted 
building. Upon this porch a knot of men had 
gathered to witness my arrival and, as I swung 
alongside, they began to shout at me with the 
boisterous good-humor of those who, having been 
unfortunate themselves, are fully capable of ap¬ 
preciating the discomforts of a fellow-sufferer. 

“Tell me, little man,” cried one, “is it damp 
out there?” 

“It is fully as wet above as it is below, eh?” 
laughed another. 


27 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


'^Come, hurry if you would find a place,” 
growled a third in a harsh unpleasant voice. 
'^There is little room here, and the boats are arriv¬ 
ing fast. It will be first come, first served.” 

This seemed good advice, despite the speaker’s 
tone, and, snatching my gun and blankets, I sprang 
out upon the landing. Then, with but one swift 
glance to make sure of my footing, I hurried up 
toward the shore. 

The slippery planks sagged dangerously beneath 
my tread, yet, through long experience upon 
treacherous marshes, I had little fear of disaster. 
Indeed I had already begun to quicken my pace 
when one of the watchers, springing down the 
steps, held up a warning hand. 

“Hold, my friend,” he called in a voice that 
was strangely familiar. “It is a trick. Stop 
where you are if you would not find yourself in 
the mud.” 

As he spoke he pointed to the last of the planks 
upon which I had been about to set my foot. This 
plank, having been pried from the post which 
28 


A WORD IN TIMR 


«u|/[K>rU:rl it, had l>ecn rlrawn shoreward until its 
rnitcr end touched only the merest fractirm of the 
post's edge. So delicately was it balanced that 
the weight of a child would have servwl to send 
it crashing downward. It was a droj) of eight 
feiit or more, and the mud was of that rank black 
H(jrt that stains the skin like Hrrnie offensive dye. 

SUioping I made the plank safe, after which I 
stepped along it with a carefulness that brought 
forth a roar of laughter from the jK^rch. Whfm, 
however, I arrived, the laughter ceased abruptly; 
the men, with but two exceptions, glancing at one 
another in the shamefaced manner of a party of 
l>r>ys aiught in sf/me frx>Iish prank. 

Of these exceptirms, one was the man who had 
called to me in warning. Also, now that I was 
free of the driving rain, I saw at first glance that 
he was Marcel Var, my fric*nd of the lilies. 

Tfe smilcfl as his eyes met mine, but in the ac¬ 
tion there was notie of the shame of the others. 
Rather he sct*med to express sympathy together 
with a species of quiet contempt. 

29 


Tine PAiNTien woods 


Stiinding away from him upon the opposite end 
of the porch was a huf^o heavily-hiiilt man of 
nhont the vsame ag;e. Despite its great size his 
body was well proportioned, while his hron/x'd 
face, althongh a trifle heavy, was very handsome 
in a hold itivSolent way. Yet, for all his striking 
appearance, he .seemed wludly ile.stitnte of that 
simple giHHl-humor which is ever the particular 
charm of such giant-like men. l^'lu.shed, .scowling, 
he glared across at the .snudler man with every evi¬ 
dence of a slow and snllen anger. 

Having leaned my gnn out of the wet and de¬ 
posited my blankets iK'sidc it, I pixKeeded to 
shake the water from my clotlies. Then 1 turned 
to Van 

“Again I thank yon,** .said T. “and with almost 
as much reason. From experience 1 know that 
that mild is even more unpleasant than it l(x>ks.** 

Moving toward me, Var was alxait to reply, 
when a voice broke in from across the porch. It 
was the .same harsh voice that had urgx'd me to 
hasten upon my arrival, and it came from the 


A WORD IN TIME 


big man. Not content with fixing liis plank, he 
had sought to hurry me on to it. 

“Nevertheless the mud can scarce l)e as unpleas¬ 
ant as a spoil-sport in a crowd of good fellows.” 

To this thrust Var made immediate reply. 

“There are spoil-sports and spoil-sports, 
M'sieu,” he returned easily. “Had your victim 
been one of the good fellows of whom you have 
just spoken, I would have held my peace. Being 
who he is — ” 

He broke off abruptly, finishing his speech by 
means of a glance at my twisted shoulders. 

The big man growled his disgust. 

“So that is it, eh ?” he sneered. “Just the same, 
my friend, had you UvSed your eyes, you would 
have seen that, for all his broken back, he was as 
spry as the rest of us.” 

At this my own temper rose. It was not on 
account of his reference to my misfortune, since 
I have never been sensitive about that. It was his 
loud bullying tone, together with the thought of 
how he had meant to serve me. 


31 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘Wes indeed, I am spry, M’sieu,'' I flared. 
“Also, had I fallen into that mud, you might have 
been treated to even a better exhibition of my 
spryness. That you are very large I will admit, 
but the bigger the man, the better the target.’' 

While speaking I had moved gradually toward 
my gun so that, in case of need, I could make 
good my words. At this moment, however, the 
door of the building opened to admit to the porch 
a stout, jolly-looking man, whose round moon¬ 
like face was set with a pair of small twinkling 
eyes. Pausing in the doorway he smiled genially 
about him, the living embodiment of the sign 
above his head. This sign, which was nailed to 
the top of the door-sill, had once formed part of a 
packing-case. Now it announced in smeared, 
black letters: 

A. LONSON 

GENERAL SUPPLIES 

“Well, my friends?” inquired M’sieu Lonson 
anxiously. “Is it that you find it more pleasant 

32 


A WORD IN TIME 


outside than in? If this is the case only say so, 
and I will set up my business upon the porch.” 

His words produced a general laugh to which 
even the big man added a sulky smile. That the 
air had been cleared by the proprietor’s drollery 
was evident, and I at once began to regret my 
show of temper. After all, I thought, the trick 
had not been intended for myself in particular. 
It had merely been arranged for the first unfor¬ 
tunate who came along, and I should have ac¬ 
cepted the affair in a better spirit. As it was I 
had succeeded in creating a bad impression among 
a crowd of strangers in whose company I would 
be forced to pass the night. It now remained for 
me to make amends. 

Glancing past M’sieu Lonson, I caught, through 
the half opened door, the end of a rough bar. At 
once the problem of my penitence was solved. 

'‘Bien, M’sieu,” said I in reply to the landlord’s 
query, ^‘if you will promise to keep it as wet in¬ 
doors as out, I for one will not insist upon a 
removal of your fixtures.” 

33 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


And I added, addressing the company at large, 
‘‘Come, my friends. What do you say? If I fill 
them up all round, will it not ease your disappoint¬ 
ment at not seeing me play mole out there upon the 
flat?” 

The big man, his ill-humor gone, called out an 
acceptance with the rest. 

“Well spoken, little one,” he cried. “Had I 
known your intentions, I would never have fixed 
that plank.” 

“Think no more of it, M'sieu,” said I. “It is 
the way of the world. Perhaps we would all be 
better off if we did not continually tumble our 
good fortune into the mud.” 

Var accepted with a silent nod. Throughout 
the brief argument he alone had remained calm, 
yet somehow I knew that this calmness had not 
been born of any sense of fear. At the bar he 
lined up beside me, ordering a bottle of the red 
pop that is known as rouge, 

“You are an abstainer then?” I asked, as I 
choked down the rank liquor which was necessary 
after my drenching. 


34 


A WORD IN TIME 


He shrugged, glancing up the bar to where the 
big man was already shouting for a second round. 

'‘Upon occasion, yes,” he replied. 'T have 
found that it pays.” 


CHAPTER IV 


A NIGHT AT LONSON S 


’SIEU LONSON’S sign, if crude, proved 



eminently truthful. Indeed had it read 


“Every Supply” instead of “General Supplies” it 
would still have remained inside the bounds of 
veracity. 11ie store was small, even for its par¬ 
ticular class of trade, yet it contained a varied 
assortment of goods that were stacked upon 
shelves along the right-hand side of the room. 

There were food, clothing, footgear, headgear, 
ammunition, fishing-tackle — in fact everything 
that could possibly be desired by a traveler of 
the bayou. 

1'he left-hand side of the establishment was oc¬ 
cupied by the bar which, l)eing a short one, left 
room at one end for two battered tables, each of 
them furnished with a square of carpet and a heap 


36 


A NIGHT AT LONSON’S 


of chips. At the rear a door led into a small lean- 
to which was reserved for the proprietor’s private 
use. 

Considering its remote situation it was a most 
admirable combination of store and coffee-house, 
a fact with which I acquainted M’sieu Lonson 
during the lull that followed the ordering of the 
second round. 

The proprietor accepted my compliment with 
the air of one who is only receiving his just dues. 

“Yes,” he agreed, “it is a good place—the best 
between here and the swamps. Believe me or not, 
as you please, but the present company is no more 
than my usual nightly crowd. It has been sug¬ 
gested that I charge for sleeping space upon my 
floor, but I am not one of your grasping kind. 
Some people, were it permissible, would charge 
for the very air breathed about their premises.” 

He broke off with a snort of virtuous indigna¬ 
tion while I, having long lost track of the shifting 
population of the swamp, prepared to turn his 
talkativeness to my own advantage. By now, all 
37 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


hopes of a third round having been abandoned, 
the men had drifted away from the bar, some of 
them sitting down to the tables, others squatting 
about in little groups, their backs against the 
counter that ran along the opposite side of the 
room. 

Overhead the rain drummed upon the roof with 
the endless monotony of an all-night downpour. 
It was already the hour of sunset, and in front 
the unshuttered windows showed dark and opaque 
against the shadows of the porch. Soon there 
would be a demand for food, followed by a grad¬ 
ual revelry. At first the drinks would come 
slowly, the bets upon the cards would be small. 
Later the gambling, the drinking, would proceed 
at the highest pressure of which these men were 
capable. Then, tired Nature asserting herself, the 
blankets would be unrolled, the lights would be 
put out, the losers, with a final, sleepy oath, would 
compose themselves to sleep. 

I had seen many such nights and I knew that, if 
I would gain any information from M’sieu Lon- 

38 


A NIGHT AT LONSON’S 


son, I must set about the matter at once. Later, 
in his capacity of bartender and general peace¬ 
maker, he would have no time for ordinary 
affairs. 

“Then you know the swamp-folk well?” I 
began. 

M’sieu Lonson smiled—almost pityingly. 

“Know them?” he echoed. “Why I know 
things about most of them, my friend, of which 
they are not even aware themselves.” 

“The big man there then—^he of the loud 
voice?” I went on. “What of him?” 

“That is Blaise Duron,” replied M’sieu Lonson 
promptly. 

His tone implied that, were I not wholly ignor¬ 
ant, a further description would be unnecessary; 
nor, as a matter of fact, was I in need of one. I 
had heard frequently of Blaise Duron in the 
towns and villages along the bayou. He often 
came in from the swamps upon the tow boats, and 
the coffee-house keepers had great tales to tell of 
his strength and temper. 

39 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


That he was a bully had been shown to me a 
while before. Now, as I looked about me, I saw 
that he was a selfish one. He sat tipped far back 
in a chair, his feet crossed comfortably upon the 
table before him. Apparently he was only taking 
his ease, but he was taking it in a manner that de¬ 
prived his companions of all use of the table. 

“This Duron seems very much at home here,’’ 
I could not help from observing. 

M’sieu Lonson raised his fat shoulders. 

“He is very much at home everywhere, my 
friend,” he returned. “He makes it his business 
to be so. And when he has been drinking—” 

He paused, glanced uneasily in Duron’s direc¬ 
tion, and added in a lower tone, “You were lucky 
to arrive when you did and not later, little man. 
Otherwise you would have gone into the mud 
willy-nilly. Also, if you will take my advice, you 
will make no further reference to the affair even 
in jest. Once drunk, Duron is ever upon the 
look-out for trouble. It would not be pleasant for 
any of us were he to be met half-way.” 


40 


A NIGHT AT LONSON’S 


Left to himself M’sieu Lonson would have gone 
on endlessly about this bad man of the swamp, 
but I had already heard more than enough of him. 
Also I was anxious to learn what I could of my 
preserver. 

*'Bien, M’sieu,” said I shortly. “You may 
count upon my discretion. And now for the 
smaller man at the second table—the one with the 
calm yet searching eyes. What can you tell me 
of him?’^ 

M’sieu Lonson surveyed me with a look of dis¬ 
pleasure that was almost childish in its frankness. 
Evidently he did not relish my interrupting the 
praises of his hero. 

“Oh, that one,” he exclaimed impatiently. 
“That is only Var—Marcel Var—a person of lit¬ 
tle importance. He is one of your tight-mouthed 
men, harmless, I grant you, but very dull. Some 
say that his kind are deep, but for myself I prefer 
the open free-spoken sort like Duron. If they 
are dangerous at times, they are also very in¬ 
teresting.” 


41 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


After this, although I inquired about several of 
the other men, I received scant reward for my 
pains. Always M’sieu Lonson would dismiss 
them with a word or two, ending up with a com¬ 
parison that would bring him back to the redoubt¬ 
able Duron. In the end, abandoning my inquiries, 
I bought some food and retired to a comer 
whence, while I ate, I could take note of all that 
went on about me. 

The next hour—which was devoted to an early 
meal and the arrival of a few belated stragglers— 
passed quietly enough. Then, when the cigar¬ 
ettes were rolled and the pipes had been packed, 
the men settled down to the real business of the 
evening. At the first of the two tables a game 
of stud poker was begun with Duron as its banker 
and leading spirit. For a space this game occu¬ 
pied the attention of the entire company, those 
who were unable to find a place watching the play 
from over the shoulders of their more fortunate 
companions. Then, when the interest began to 
wane, other games were started, some sitting 


42 


A NIGHT AT LONSON’S 


down to euchre at the second table, others stand¬ 
ing up to dice at the bar and counter. 

Soon the room became obscured by a thick pall 
of tobacco smoke through which M’sieu Lonson 
hurried ponderously as he filled the orders that 
were shouted at him from every side. Glasses 
clinked, chips rattled, all spoke at the top of their 
voices, the winners cheering their luck, the losers 
humorously bewailing their misfortune. The rev¬ 
elry had begun, and for the present its note was 
one of careless good humor. 

Seated in my corner I watched the lively scene, 
well content to play the part of spectator. As a 
hunter I had long before realized the importance 
of a clear eye and steady hand, and had therefore 
confined my drinking to moments of necessity. 
Gambling I cared for only as a means of passing 
away the time, and just now I was in no need of 
amusement. 

True, M’sieu Lonson might think me his one 
bad customer, but even upon this point my con¬ 
science was at rest. In the morning I meant to 
43 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


make up to him for my abstinence by renewing 
such of my supplies as had been spoiled by the 
storm. 


CHAPTER V 


ONE WAY OUT OF A QUARREL 

PON looking about me, however, I saw that 



there was yet another who took no part in 


the fun. Marcel Var, true to his reputation of 
quiet unobtrusiveness, was also neither drinking 
nor gambling. Seated upon the counter, he fol¬ 
lowed the fortunes of a group of dice players, 
calling an occasional word of encouragement to 
them through the smoke of his cigarette. That 
he was of this group, if not an actual player, he 
proved by standing treat as regularly as his turn 
came round; but always he either refused the 
liquor, or ordered a bottle of rouge. 

Somehow, for all his air of quiet ease, he gave 
me the impression that he was waiting for some¬ 
thing. As the night wore on this something de¬ 
clared itself in a manner that was understood 
by all. 


45 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


The first hint came from the poker table where 
a loud outburst of oaths announced the fact that 
Blaise Duron had been deprived of an especially 
large pot. All along the big man had been drink¬ 
ing heavily, but thus far the luck had been on 
his side. Now, with this first considerable loss, 
his temper began to assert itself. 

Rising angrily, he hurled the cards into a cor¬ 
ner, and shouted to M’sieu Lonson for a fresh 
pack. Then, as, waiting, he glanced ominously 
about the room, his glance fell upon the quiet 
figure seated near the dice players. At once 
Duron’s glare became fixed. His eyes narrowed, 
and his hands began a clenching movement. The 
bully, recalling the incidents of the afternoon, had 
discovered an outlet for his ill-humor. 

“Hola, you, over there upon the counter,” he 
demanded insolently. “Why is it that you are 
not enjoying yourself? Is it that you are with¬ 
out money? If so you have chosen the wrong 
place for a night’s lodging.” 

It so happened that at the moment Var was in 
46 


ONE WAY OUT OF A QUARREL 


the act of lighting a cigarette. Before replying 
he struck his match and held it up with fingers 
so steady that the tiny flame burned without a 
waver. 

“Pardon, M’sieu,'’ said he, “but you do not 
allow for a difference in tastes. You are enjoy¬ 
ing yourself in your way, I in mine. As for my 
money, surely that is a matter which concerns 
only our host and myself.” 

To this Duron replied with a scowl, half of 
anger, half of perplexity. Having been balked in 
his attempt to provoke the other to a sharp answer 
he now seemed, in a slow-witted manner, to be 
seeking some other mode of attack. It is prob¬ 
able that, abandoning the effort, he would soon 
have burst forth in a torrent of frank abuse, had 
not M'sieu Lonson intervened. 

“Come, come, my friend,” he cried as he lunged 
forward from the bar. “Let us waste no time in 
argument. See, here are the cards, and a lucky 
deck, I’ll warrant you. Play, man, play, if you 
would get back your losses.” 

47 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Slowly, and with a mutter of reluctant oaths, 
Duron allowed himself to be seated at the table 
again. The cards were dealt, the chips were bet, 
the game proceeded as before. Yet, despite the 
briefness of the interruption, the room had ex¬ 
changed its atmosphere of careless enjoyment for 
one of uneasy expectancy. 

Men glanced at one another between deals. The 
dice players, halting their play, insisted that Var 
should join them. M’sieu Lonson, his jovial face 
puckered into a frown of anxiety, hovered rest¬ 
lessly between poker table and counter. The bully, 
having threatened, had been mollified. From now 
on the peace of the night would hang upon his 
mood. 

Leaving my corner I moved over to the counter, 
resolved that, in case of trouble, Var should at 
least have such assistance as I could render him. 
In the first place my debt to him was a large one. 
In the second, despite his great size, I was not in 
the least afraid of Duron. 

The next hour, however, passed uneventfully. 

48 


ONE WAY OUT OF A QUARREL 


Duron's luck had returned, and his spirits rose 
with each fresh addition to his barricade of chips. 

Then, with the raising of the stakes toward 
midnight, fortune again deserted him. Now that 
the pots had grown larger, it seemed impossible 
for him to win one, although he repeatedly held 
the strongest hand up to the dealing of the final 
card. 

Exasperating to most men, this continued ill- 
luck served gradually to drive Duron into a 
frenzy. First he cursed the cards. Next he 
cursed the players, going out of his way to heap 
upon the troubled head of M’sieu Lonson a wholly 
unmerited amount of abuse. Later he relapsed 
into a sullen grumble whose burden was that, 
through the interference of a certain spoil-sport, 
his night’s luck had gone awry. 

From then on all hope of peace was aban¬ 
doned. Duron had declared himself, and M’sieu 
Lonson, with a gesture of helplessness, returned 
to his original position behind the bar. The 
games proceeded mechanically, their players’ inter- 
49 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


est now wholly centered upon the bully^s next 
move. 

It came as before with the big man’s rising and 
hurling the cards in a scattered shower against the 
opposite wall. Then, having ordered another 
pack, he turned savagely upon the one whom he 
had chosen as the object of his wrath. 

‘‘What, M’sieu Spoil-sport, are you still idle 
then?” he snarled. “I thought that I had sug¬ 
gested your taking some part in the fun? Come 
now, let us see what you can do besides sitting 
around like a sick cat.” 

He paused and, jerking back the sleeves of his 
blouse, displayed a pair of enormous, knotted 
arms. 

“Come now,” he repeated threateningly. “I 
myself will direct the proceedings.” 

In the hush that followed that demand, Var 
dropped lightly from the counter to the floor. If 
his look was grave as he faced his tormentor, his 
eyes held a glint of grim determination. He spoke 
slowly, yet without hesitation, and in all that fol- 

50 


ONE WAY OUT OF A QUARREL 


lowed his actions were those of one who is carry¬ 
ing out a series of carefully considered moves. 

'‘M’sieu,” he began, “it seems to me that you 
are troubling yourself greatly about a matter that 
does not in the least concern you. As I have said, 
I am enjoying myself in my own way. However, 
since it appears that I have done nothing toward 
the general amusement, I will, if it suits the rest, 
strive to add my bit to the fun.” 

He broke off as though waiting for some word 
of encouragement, but the room remained silent 
save for the pounding of the rain. 

“Come then, hurry,” ordered Duron roughly. 
“You need not mind the rest. I will be the one 
to pass upon this bit of yours.” 

Bowing ironically, Var stepped forward, as 
though to cross the room. A gasp of astonish¬ 
ment arose from the watchers at this advance 
upon his enemy, and Duron, moving out from 
the table, adopted an attitude of defense. As for 
myself, I reached back toward the counter for an 
empty bottle, my eyes fixed upon a certain spot 

51 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


behind the bully’s left ear where I planned to land 
my first blow. 

But Var, upon gaining the center of the room, 
paused abruptly and called to the landlord. 

“That new deck, if you please, M’sieu Lon- 
son,” he requested. 

Then, having received the cards, he turned so 
as to face Duron, at the same time slipping the 
pack from its case and holding it out between 
his two hands. 

“Observe, M’sieu,” he directed crisply. “Try 
this the next time that you are unfortunate, and 
see if it does not serve you better than scattering 
your luck about.” 

As he spoke Var tightened his grip upon the 
ends of the pack, stiffening his arms until they 
were as rigid as iron bars. Next came a twist, a 
wrench, the crackle of parting pasteboard. Then 
the hands swung free, each of them holding a half 
of the pack which had been torn neatly across its 
middle. 

Again the company gasped, this time in aston- 

52 


ONE WAY OUT OF A QUARREL 

ishment. It was a pretty feat and it had been 
accomplished with an ease, a swiftness, beyond 
the power of description. 

Opening his hands, Var allowed two little 
showers of torn pasteboard to flutter down upon 
the floor. 

‘Well, M’sieu?’' he inquired meaningly. “Have 
I spoiled the sport again ?’’ 

Duron’s smile was sickly as he answered; nor 
did he inquire as to which particular sport the 
speaker referred. The pack had been new, and 
it had been torn with little suggestion of effort. 
For all his thick-wittedness the bully was not slow 
to learn in matters that concerned his personal 
welfare. 

“Well done, my friend,” he cried with false 
heartiness. “I thought that I would finally suc¬ 
ceed in bringing out the best that was within 
you.” 

He waited, that this tribute to his powers might 
have time to sink in, and then added in the voice 
of one who is more sure of himself: “And now, 
53 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


having done your part and earned your rest, I 
absolve you from both drink and play. I re¬ 
peat that you have done well.” 

Some men might have followed up their ad¬ 
vantage by suggesting that the bully do better, 
but Var seemed wholly content with the result 
of his object lesson. Tossing M’sieu Lonson a 
coin in payment for the tom pack, he returned 
to his counter where, despite Duron’s continued 
ill-luck, he remained undisturbed throughout the 
rest of the play. Later, when the games had ended 
and the men were preparing for sleep, Var ap¬ 
proached me with his blankets. 

‘Tf you are agreeable I will bunk beside you, 
little man,” said he. 

‘'Most assuredly,” I replied, “especially as I 
owe you that which goes beyond a word of grati¬ 
tude. Had your affair of a while ago turned out 
differently, I might have endeavored to make a 
small payment. But perhaps my help would not 
have been needed. That was a pretty show of 
strength, M’sieu.” 


54 


ONE WAY OUT OF A QUARREL 

He smiled, shrugging away my compliment. 

‘‘Rather a pretty trick, as our friend Duron 
will presently learn,” he returned. “It does not 
require any particular strength of hand to tear 
a pack. It is all in the knowing how. However, 
it served as, from the first, I hoped it would.” 

“Then you expected trouble all along?” I in¬ 
quired. “You must have known your man.” 

“I knew his kind,” he corrected. “Accordingly 
I drank rougCj and considered a plan. With the 
order of the first pack the idea came to me. At 
the proper moment I put it into execution.” 

“Nevertheless, trick or no trick, it was cleverly 
done,” I persisted. 

Slipping between his blankets, he dismissed the 
affair with a few sleepy words. 

“Hardly,” he yawned. “It was one way out 
of a quarrel—that is all.” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE COST OF CARELESSNESS 

I T HAD been my intention to continue my jour¬ 
ney with those of the company who were re¬ 
turning to the swamp. In this, however, I was de¬ 
feated by the late hour of my retiring, and the 
close, smoke-laden atmosphere of the room. 
Awakening next morning from a heavy sleep, 
I found that the sun was already well up in the 
sky, and that—save for two lumbermen bound in 
to the cypress mills—M’sieu Lonson’s guests had 
taken advantage of a clear dawn to separate upon 
their different affairs. 

Accordingly, having replenished my supplies, I 
set forth alone through a world that was all 
asparkle with the rain-drops of the night before. 
The bayou, muddy and swollen, surged briskly 
along between its half-submerged clumps of 

56 



THE COST OF CARELESSNESS 


rushes, and once upon it I traveled to such good 
purpose that by noon I had reached the outer 
edge of the swamp. 

It was a somber country that I entered then— 
a country of still black water, of tall fluted 
trunks, and of vast silent aisles, arched raggedly 
with a hanging tatter of moss. For hours I 
would paddle along hearing no sound save the 
cry of the birds, or the dull thumping splash of 
some diving turtle. And then, all of a sudden, 
there would come the call of a voice, the ring 
of an ax, the sullen crack of a tree as the steel 
bit into its heart. 

“Hola, you, little man,” the swampers would 
greet me. “What is the news outside?” And 
that night I would sit out late at the camp, while 
the big brown men listened to my tale of what 
was afoot in that fresher, brighter world which 
lay beyond. 

So I went on, plunging ever deeper into the 
heart of the swamp, until I arrived at what I 
thought to be the most remote of the inner 
57 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


camps. In this, however, I was mistaken. There 
was still another camp one day’s journey beyond, 
the swampers told me. It was called Camp Bon 
and, being built upon high ground, it was the 
most comfortable spot in the swamp. The cabins 
were permanent ones, and there were even some 
women about. In addition, if one made a detour 
to a certain bayou, one could approach the place 
by way of open water. 

After this nothing would do for me but that 
I must visit Camp Bon. Also, scorning the ad¬ 
vantages of the bayou, I decided to continue my 
journey through the swamp. I set forth at sun¬ 
rise the following morning, and, although the day 
promised to be one of blazing heat, I foresaw 
no difficulty in my undertaking. The water was 
up, there was a current, and this current was in 
my favor. Had it not been for the length of 
time necessary to such a proceeding, I could have 
drifted the entire way. 

But in the wild nothing is certain. It is ever 
when one is most confident that trouble peeps 
58 


THE COST OF CARELESSNESS 


over one’s shoulder. Thus, when at noon I found 
my way barred by an almost impassable tangle 
of grape-vines and creepers, I made the mistake 
of forcing my way through them before stopping 
to rest and eat my midday meal. I was weary 
and hungry, and in my impatience I set about my 
task with a carelessness which, later on, was to 
cost me dear. 

Yet I had all but won through, and the bow 
of my pirogue lay clear of the tangle when I was 
overtaken by disaster. 

It was a vine that caused the trouble—a heavy 
coil of muscadine that caught me amidships as 
in some great noose. Seizing it angrily, I flung 
it aside without one single glance overhead. As 
I did so a blunt, rusty shape came writhing down 
from above to twist itself for an instant about 
my bare right arm. I felt the harsh sickening 
rasp of the scales, the sharp prick of the fangs, 
before I tore the moccasin away. It was a cot- 
tonmouth and, almost before it had struck the 
water, I was fighting the poison. 

59 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


With the aid of my handkerchief and a hastily 
broken stick, I formed a tourniquet which I 
twisted above my elbow, knotting it tightly so 
that it would remain in place. Then, with my 
hunting knife, I attacked the bite, which was 
upon my forearm. Marking the spot carefully, 
with the blade pressed against the skin, I cut 
cleanly and deeply from one tiny puncture to 
another. 

Now it is never pleasant to cut one’s self pur¬ 
posely. Also, when this task is performed by the 
left arm upon the right, one is rendered clumsy. 
Thus, as the steel bit into my flesh, I made a 
sudden movement and the knife, jerking upward, 
slipped from my grasp into the water. At the 
moment, save for a flash of annoyance at the 
loss of a useful tool, I thought little of this 
mishap. Applying my lips to the wound, I be¬ 
gan at once to suck out the poison. 

Afterward, when I sought to remove the 
tourniquet, the knots defied every effort to undo 
them. They had been drawn cruelly tight, they 
6o 


THE COST OF CARELESSNESS 


were soaked with perspiration and water, and 
the movements of my left hand were both awk¬ 
ward and uncertain. 

‘^So,’’ said I to myself after some moments of 
useless struggling. ‘‘You will never accomplish 
anything in your present condition, my friend. 
You are weak, and shaken, and very much in need 
of something to eat. First fortify yourself with 
food, and the matter will prove simple.” 

Thus, having made one mistake, I capped it 
with a second, fatal blunder. 

As I ate I was not conscious of the swelling of 
my arm. It was very gradual, and it was accom¬ 
panied only by a dull throbbing. I had been bitten 
before, and my treatment had always proved suc¬ 
cessful. Perhaps it was the heat, the swamp, or 
an especially active venom. At all events when, 
after a hasty meal, I again considered the tourni¬ 
quet, I found it already sunk between two rapidly 
rising walls of angry flesh. 

It was then that the loss of my knife began to 
assume the proportions of a tragedy. True, I 
6i 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


always traveled with a small ax, but only the day 
before I had presented it to an obliging swamper. 
Utterly destitute of any edged tool, I attacked the 
knots with hands and teeth in a frenzy of despera¬ 
tion. I bit. I tore. I bruised my swollen flesh 
until it fairly leaped out at me in protest, but 
all to no avail. In the end, faint and dizzy, I 
was forced to acknowledge to myself that, with¬ 
out aid, my case was hopeless. 

Clear-headed now, when the time for clear¬ 
headedness was past, I considered my position. 
The camp that I had left that morning was prob¬ 
ably the nearest civilization but, if I turned back 
in that direction, the current would be against 
me. Already the throbbing in my arm had 
changed to a sharp ache which would soon render 
paddling impossible. Camp Bon seemed my one 
hope, and gripping my courage hard, I resumed 
my interrupted journey. 


CHAPTER VII 


A SONG AND A GIRL 

O F MY Struggle through the swamp I do not 
like to think even now. For the first 
hour, despite my ever-increasing agony, I man¬ 
aged to paddle. After that I made shift to help 
the current with my left arm. It was one of 
those dreadful, breathless days that sometimes 
herald an early summer, and the swamp, beneath 
its dense roof of moss and branch, was like 
some vast oven. As for my arm, it sickened me 
to look at it. From wrist to shoulder the flesh 
was puffed to the bursting point, and the tourni¬ 
quet was pressed in until I marveled that the 
bones did not crack. 

Upon the forearm the two minute punctures of 
the bite were all but lost amid the general discol¬ 
oration. They fascinated me, those punctures. 

63 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


They seemed such a paltry entrance for so great 
a king as Death. 

Toward the end of the third hour I lost my 
paddle. It slipped from my hand, and I gave it 
not so much as a glance as it drifted off. By 
then my torture was unbearable, and my wits were 
fast leaving me. My arm had swelled until I 
wondered that, balloon-like, it did not float me 
away. It was numb now, save at the tourniquet, 
but the agony of that ever-tightening band was 
the greatest that I have ever known. 

It was dreadful to be so helpless in my misery. 
I could not even divert myself by struggling use¬ 
lessly with the knots. They had long since dis¬ 
appeared from view. 

Throughout the late afternoon I was for the 
most part happily insensible. I can recall brief 
flashes of consciousness in which I stared up 
from the bottom of my pirogue at the ever- 
changing roof of the swamp. It was a thick, 
close-woven roof, speaking of a growth almost 
primeval, and, from the way it slid past, it was 

64 


A SONG AND A GIRL 


evident that, if the water had stolen my paddle, 
it was repairing the loss through the swiftness of 
its currents. But I was in no condition then to 
appreciate this tardy repentance of Nature. Half 
mad with pain and fever, I prayed only for a 
speedy end to my torment. Had the thought not 
been denied my darkened mind, I would most 
certainly have rolled from the pirogue and ended 
the matter at once. 

Near sunset there came a swift change in my 
condition. My brain cleared suddenly, and the 
agony in my arm subsided into a dull grinding 
ache, as from the worrying of some savage ani¬ 
mal. Weakly raising myself to a sitting posture, 
I found that I was drifting between huge ancient 
ranks of cypress trees whose trunks were all 
splashed and mottled with a growth of pinkish 
lichen. The water was thick and dark, but the 
current bumped me along through the maze of 
scattered knees with a skill that was more than 
human. Clear though it was, my brain swam 
dizzily, while before my eye there pulsed a vague 

65 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


reddish glow that was shot with an ever-increas¬ 
ing blackness. 

''Bien, Bossu,” I said to myself. “This is the 
end. At least you will have a vault of no mean 
proportions.” 

How long I waited for the blackness to close 
in upon me I do not know. The lichen vanished, 
the water cleared, yet still I trembled upright, 
seeking the end that would not come. And then, 
even as the last red gleam was flickering out into 
darkness, I caught, as from an infinite distance, 
a faint thread of song. 

At first I thought it some bird who unknow¬ 
ingly chanted my requiem. An instant later, as 
it swelled upon a high clear note, I knew it for 
what it was. Too often had I heard the women 
croon that old lullaby as they rocked their little 
ones in the brief twilight of the Grand Woods. 

It is strange how we poor humans will cling 
to the last shred of hope. A moment before I 
had awaited death with only a feeling of weary 
impatience. Now I began to fight for my life as 
66 


A SONG AND A GIRL 


fiercely as though the struggle had only begun. 
I sought with my very soul to scream, but my 
parched lips could produce scarce a whisper. I 
beat with my heels upon the bottom of the 
pirogue, only to bring forth a faint, thudding 
sound. Wild with despair, I finally remembered 
my gun. It lay in the bow and, if only I could 
find it and shoot it, the report might bring an 
answer. 

Blindly, desperately, fighting off the blackness 
that beat down upon me in great choking waves, 
I groped about until my hand finally encountered 
the stock of my old weapon. With the last ounce 
of strength I drew back the hammer. Then, as 
I dropped a limp finger toward the trigger, the 
blackness triumphed in a roar of sound. 

Later I was flashed back to life for an instant 
by a flood of such agony as only death itself could 
have withstood. I had but a glimpse, as my 
eyes fluttered open and shut, but in that glimpse 
I saw that I was saved. 

I lay upon a great, loose heap of green moss 

67 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


that had been piled into a broad flat-bottomed 
boat, and over me there bent a young girl. She 
was dark, and beautiful, and in her hand was an 
enormous knife. If her eyes held pity, they 
were also determined, and the blade of her knife 
was red with blood. 

As she stooped to her task again the black¬ 
ness, mercifully, whirled me away. 


CHAPTER VIII 


CAMP BON 

W HEN next I opened my eyes I found my¬ 
self in the bunk of a swamper’s cabin. 
It was a strong, well built cabin, and its furnish¬ 
ings, if rude, were of the sort that speak of woman 
and home. Gay pictures and calendars had been 
tacked about. Upon the shelf above the open 
fire straggled a row of little china ornaments. 
There was even a curtain of some gauzy stuff 
before the small window in front. 

This much I saw in a roving glance before my 
attention became centered upon one who sat at 
the side of the bunk. It was the same young girl 
who had rescued me, and now that I could see her 
more clearly, I found that her beauty was of a 
rare and wonderful sort. She was tall and lithe, 
yet for all her slenderness and grace, there was 
69 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


that about her which gave one the impression of 
endurance and strength. 

For the rest, she was of a type frankly Spanish. 
Her eyes were large and dark, her lips red and 
full, while her cheeks, faintly touched by wind 
and sun, were of a marvelous, shadowy olive. 
Her dress, of dull crimson, served well to set off 
her dark beauty while, as though to heighten 
the effect, she had thrust through the black 
heavy masses of her hair a spray of scarlet 
blossoms. 

Seeing that I was looking at her, she nodded 
pleasantly. 

“So you are awake at last, are you, Bossu?” 
she questioned. “I was beginning to think that 
you would sleep forever."’ 

“I thank you. Mademoiselle,” said I. “You 
have most certainly saved my life. How was I 
when you found me?” 

“You were all but drowned,” she replied. “Your 
gun had kicked you half into the water, and 
your head was almost under. Five minutes more 
70 


CAMP BON 


and I would have been too late. You were lucky, 
Bossu, not only in that I reached you in time, but 
because I was there to reach you at all. It is 
very seldom that I go so deep into the swamp.” 

‘‘And my arm?” I went on. 

“That was a terrible business, Bossu,” she re¬ 
turned. “Also, with the only instrument at my 
command, it proved no easy one. But I will show 
you. If I have cut you often and deep, the fault 
is not my own.” 

Rising, she took from a nail driven into the 
wall a belt. This belt was fitted with a leather 
scabbard, and from the scabbard she drew a knife 
such as I had never seen before. I say a knife, 
since that is what she afterward termed it, but in 
appearance it was more like some short and heavy 
sword. The handle, of bone wrapped about with 
brass wire, ended in a plain but massive guard. 
The blade, long, flat, and of an extraordinary 
breadth, rounded off with a bluntness that could 
scarce be spoken of as a point. Evidently, despite 
the apparent fineness of its steel, the weapon was 

71 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


intended for hacking rather than for cut and 
thrust. 

*'Dieu, Mademoiselle/’ said I as I gazed at it. 
“You need not apologize for any cuts that you 
may have given me. I only wonder that, with 
such a cleaver, you did not take my arm off en¬ 
tirely. Wherever did you get it ?” 

The girl smiled as she returned the knife to its 
sheath. 

“It was given me by a sailor at Morgan City,” 
she replied. “He said that in the far off southern 
country from which he brought it, they use such 
knives in the cutting of cane. At all events it is 
most useful to me in clearing my way through the 
swamp, and I always wear it in my journeys about 
the camp at night. But enough of my cleaver, 
as you call it. Tell me now how you, Bossu, 
came to let the swelling of your arm get beyond 
you.” 

Briefly I told her of my carelessness, of my 
disastrous meal followed by the loss of my knife. 
Afterward she informed me that I had slept from 
72 


CAMP BON 


one sunset to another. When I asked her name 
and how it was that she knew my own so well, 
she only smiled and told me that I had talked 
enough, and must now go to sleep again. As the 
dusk was falling, and I still felt very weak and 
tired, I lost little time in obeying her command. 

I awoke the following morning to a great 
burst of sunshine, and the sound of a loud deep 
voice that was strangely familiar. The voice came 
from just outside the open window, and as it 
rumbled on in greeting to some passer-by, 1 
found little difficulty in placing it. My weariness 
was gone and the thought that I had fallen into 
the hands of a well-remembered comrade brought 
me a feeling of pleasure and comfort. As I 
raised myself I found that my arm, although 
weak and tender, was already much improved. 

‘‘Hola, you, Jean Fagot,” I called, and a mo¬ 
ment later my old friend was inside the cabin. 

He came forward in a series of short irregular 
steps, but save for his limp, and the now uniform 
whiteness of his bristly hair, he had changed 
73 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


little since that day, ten years before, when he had 
turned his back upon the Grand Woods. 

‘‘Bossu, Bossu,’' he cried. ‘Tt does my heart 
good to see you. I was busy when you awoke at 
sunset, and afterward Jeanne would not let me 
disturb you. And the arm ? It is better ?” 

‘‘The arm will soon be all right again,'^ I as¬ 
sured him. “And so it was the little Jeanne who 
saved me? I would never have known her, Fa¬ 
got. This is indeed like old times. In one way, 
at least, my friend the moccasin has served me 
well." 

We talked throughout the morning, and I 
learned of Fagot’s life since his departure from 
the woods. He had just drifted about—follow¬ 
ing the trees. At first he had avoided the swamps, 
fearing their effect upon his child. Later, as the 
timber thinned, he had been forced into them. 
Starting at the outer edge, he had worked his 
way inward, chopping along from one camp to 
another until he had been overtaken by the inevit¬ 
able disaster. As usual it had come from a 
74 


CAMP BON 


jammed pirogue and a falling tree, and he had 
been lamed beyond the hope of ever swinging his 
ax again. 

After that he had come to his present home. 
It was a nice place—just the quiet comfortable 
spot for such a wreck as himself—^and Voltaire 
Bon, the founder and leader of the camp, was 
very kind. For the rest, he and Jeanne made 
their living by gathering moss from the swamp. 
Once it had been rotted down, they tied it in bales 
and sent it outside by the tow boats that came 
up every now and then from the cypress mills. 

Thus, despite his injury, the old man still took 
his toll of the trees. 

In return I began to tell Fagot of all that had 
occurred in the woods since his absence, but to 
my surprise several of the incidents were already 
known to him. 

"'Why, Bossu,” he teased, when I questioned 
him, "do you know that you are becoming fam¬ 
ous? Even here, in the depths of the swamp, we 
have heard of your success in matters of investi- 

75 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


gation. You are becoming quite a detective. I 
must be careful while you are here, else you may 
reveal some dark secret of my life to Jeanne.” 

He paused, while the light humor faded slowly 
from his eyes, leaving them dull and brooding. 

“Ah, Bossu,” he went on in a different tone, 
“I have often thought of what might have oc¬ 
curred had you known of your talents when first 
we were friends. Then, perhaps, it might have 
been different. Then, perhaps, the law would 
have brought justice instead of murder. The 
right word, the right sign, and my boy might 
have been saved. But we did not know, Bossu— 
we did not know.” 

His voice broke. He bowed his head. In 
the matter of Jean Pierre’s memory those ten 
years might have been but a day. 

“Come, Fagot,” I encouraged him. “You 
must forget the past. That is over and done 
with. You have Jeanne, and such talents as I am 
possessed of are at her command. Suppose I em¬ 
ploy them in finding her a good husband ?” 

76 


CAMP BON 


It was hard to win him back to his formei 
mood, but I persevered until, at midday, he was 
talking as brightly as before. Then, as Jeanne 
was away in the swamp, we two ate together. 
Afterward, feeling strong enough, I left the 
bunk for a seat outside. 

Here I had my first view of Camp Bon, to 
which, despite their praises, the swampers of the. 
inner camp had done scant justice. In front a 
broad, open sheet of water stretched away to 
the distant cypress, lapping its tiny waves against 
the series of rough landings to which the inhabit¬ 
ants moored their craft. Back of these landings 
the cabins were built along a sloping crescent of 
high ground, each with its floor raised upon 
blocks against the spring floods, each with its lad¬ 
der-like stairway leading up to a little front porch. 
Vines grew before the porches. Coarse garments 
snapped as they dried in the breeze. Here and 
there, even, a rank green patch of garden stuff 
told of an industry beyond that of the ax and 
saw. 


77 


THE PAINTED WOODS 

It was very strange and very beautiful, this 
little, permanent settlement in the heart of the 
swamp. Sunwashed and clean, it flashed like 
some jewel amid its dark setting of moss, and 
branch, and rusty foliage. 

I will not soon forget that revival of an old 
friendship. Fagot was still the same gentle crea¬ 
ture that he had always been, and when that after¬ 
noon Jeanne arrived with her boat-load of moss, 
our little reunion was made complete. Again I 
sought to thank the girl, but she only replied by 
adding to her kindness. 

^^It is nothing,she protested. ‘Tf we swamp- 
folk did not help one another, we would not long 
survive. But since you feel that you owe me a 
debt of gratitude, you can repay it by staying 
with us throughout the summer. We hear little 
of the outside world, and unless you have changed 
since my childhood, you will prove no bad com¬ 
panion. So come, Bossu. Promise that you will 
remain.” 

‘‘There is no need for him to promise,” boomed 

78 


CAMP BON 


Fagot. *We will hide his pirogue until we are 
ready to let him go.” 

''Bien/' I agreed. “I shall stay a while, but 
only upon the understanding that, once my arm 
is healed, it will be as a helper and not a guest. 
Hunter though I am, I have often picked moss as 
well as feathers during a lean season.” 

Later, when the men returned from the swamp, 
we again sat out in front, watching the life of 
the camp. Until far into the dusk the inhabitants 
hurried about upon their various affairs and al¬ 
ways, as they passed the cabin, Fagot would halt 
them for an introduction to myself. Once, how¬ 
ever, when a huge broad-shouldered swamper 
swaggered by, the introduction proved unneces¬ 
sary. 

‘^So it is you, is it, little man?” he called. 

And he added at sight of my bandaged arm: 
‘Who has been fixing a plank for you this time?” 

After he had gone Fagot seemed greatly 
pleased at the acquaintanceship. 

“Then you know Blaise Duron, eh?” he asked. 


79 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘But every one knows him to the end of the 
bayou. He is a man of importance here, is Duron. 
Voltaire Bon, the leader, is his uncle, and it is 
well understood that he will some day step into 
the old man’s shoes.” 

To this I replied briefly; nor did I make any 
mention of the events at Lonson’s. I was Fagot’s 
guest, and the big man was Fagot’s friend. 

Nevertheless, had Blaise Duron been identified 
with some other camp, the loss would have dis¬ 
turbed me not at all. 


CHAPTER IX 


JEANNE 

T hose first days at Camp Bon passed 
pleasantly enough. Under Jeanne’s care 
my arm healed rapidly, and it was not long before 
I was able to take my part in the work of my 
benefactors. 

For a time I assisted Fagot as he pottered 
about his littered back yard, where the moss lay 
rotting in great piles. Then, with the return of 
my strength, I joined Jeanne in her harvest of 
the swamp. The girl knew each nook and cranny 
of the great stretch of cypress, and no spot, how¬ 
ever tangled, seemed inaccessible to her skill. 
Drawing her great knife, she would hack her 
way unerringly inside, where, with the aid of a 
long, spiked pole, she twisted down her spoils into 
the bottom of her boat. At such times she ever 


8i 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


wore a pair of heavy leather gauntlets, and often 
she teased me about them. 

“See,” she would say, holding out her slender 
shapely arm. “You must get yourself a pair of 
these, Bossu. Then you can jerk as many vines 
as you please without risk. Believe me, I have 
had my full share of unwelcome visitors. If, as 
they say, the penance for one^s sins is lessened by 
the killing of a snake, I shall spend but a short 
time in Purgatory.” 

We became good friends—^Jeanne and I—for 
there was the bond of those earlier days to draw 
us close together. It was hard to realize that the 
small brown child with whom I had roamed the 
woods was now this dark proud beauty of the 
swamp. I was like one who, passing a rare bud 
unawares, returns to find it in full and glorious 
bloom. 

Then, as the days wore on, and I knew her bet¬ 
ter, I came to see that, to Jeanne’s beauty of face 
and form, there was added another, greater 
beauty of heart and soul. In nature she was 
82 


JEANNE 


still little more than a child, and if, through 
her heritage of Spanish blood, her gusts of temper 
were swift and fierce, they were always quickly 
followed by the pity and gentleness of her father. 
Often I have heard those who saw her in anger 
say, ^'There is a little vixen for you.” But after¬ 
ward, when in her humbled pride she asked their 
forgiveness, they would only esteem her the more 
through the beauty of her repentance. 

And I will add in justice to her that, of her 
many virtues, the least was not charity. If in 
the care of my arm she had shown much skill, I 
soon found that it was a skill born of long prac¬ 
tise. Whenever illness or disaster showed their 
dark faces at Camp Bon, there was Jeanne to 
fight them to the bitter end. 

Now living as she did in a remote community, 
whose inhabitants were for the most part of the 
opposite sex, I had expected Jeanne to be the 
object of a great deal of attention. As good as 
she was beautiful, as industrious as she was 
clever, she was in every way a girl to be sought 

83 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


after. True she had her temper, but this, being 
short-lived, only added to her a certain piquant 
charm. I had looked for Fagot’s cabin to be the 
nightly shrine of many impatient suitors. 

In this, however, I was soon forced to admit 
myself mistaken. As had been my first night at 
Camp Bon, so were those that followed. Though 
the men approached Fagot’s little front porch 
many times between sunset and darkness, they 
never lingered for even the briefest of calls. 
Later, despite the seductions of a full and glorious 
moon, they kept persistently to themselves. 

To me this was as perplexing as it was un¬ 
natural. Given a girl of Jeanne’s beauty and men 
of my own race, that moonlight should never have 
been wasted. For a time I puzzled over this 
strange avoidance. Then, through the gossip of 
the camp, the mystery was gradually explained. 
Years before when Fagot, a crippled useless 
wreck, had drifted into his present home, Vol¬ 
taire Bon, the leader, had been very kind to him. 
He had given the old man a comfortable cabin. 

84 


JEANNE 


He had suggested the moss picking, arranging 
himself for regular shipments by the tow boats. 
He had even supplied Fagot with food and other 
necessities until the payment for the first ship¬ 
ment had been received. 

Later, when his nephew, Blaise Duron, had 
developed a boyish affection for Fagot’s little 
Jeanne, the leader had crowned his benevolence 
by approving the match. True, it had been only 
an affair of children, but in the swamp they 
marry young. The two old men had looked on 
and smiled; Voltaire Bon with the contentment 
born of a good deed. Fagot with the satisfaction 
of one who sees an opportunity of repaying in 
part a long-standing debt of kindness. 

Later still, as Jeanne’s beauty increased with 
her age, the camp had been given to understand 
that the girl was for Duron alone. There had 
been no betrothal, no public announcement. The 
affair had been merely understood. 

Nevertheless several of the men, abandoning 
such hopes as they might have cherished, had 

85 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


married girls from elsewhere. The remaining 
ones—Ledet, Mamus, Trappey and Pesson—had 
thus far religiously respected the understanding. 
Jeanne might be desirable, but Voltaire Bon was 
a leader whose slightest wish was law. 

This then was the explanation of Jeanne’s 
neglect—an explanation which, significantly 
enough, I learned from the camp at large, and not 
from the actions of the one favored suitor. In¬ 
deed, had I relied upon Blaise Duron’s attitude to 
shed any light upon the affair, I would have de¬ 
parted from Camp Bon as ignorant of the true 
situation as when I arrived. 

Secure in his self-conceit and long-recognized 
proprietorship, the big man treated Jeanne with a 
lazy patronage that bordered close upon contempt. 
He desired the girl; that should be enough for her. 
He would claim her when it suited his convenience. 

As for Jeanne herself, if she was dissatisfied 
with this calm arrangement of her future by 
others, she made no sign. To Duron’s patronage 
she replied with the intimacy of their long com- 
86 


JEANNE 


panionship, but beyond this she did not go. 
There were no sighs or glances when the big man 
was about. In its way her indifference was fully 
as marked as his own. 

It was a strange courtship, and one that did not 
promise to be lasting. True, Voltaire Bon ruled 
his followers with a hand of iron, but even his 
camp was subject to the many shifts and changes 
of the swamp. Sooner or later there must come 
a break in his ranks, admitting some undisciplined 
stranger from the outer camps. Then, perhaps, 
Blaise Duron might not swagger so carelessly 
along the smooth path of his courtship. 

‘'So, Bossu,” I said to myself, "if you stay 
long enough you may see. Once let your bully 
find a worthy rival, and a dozen Voltaire Bons 
will not serve to save his from the consequences 
of his neglect.” 

Three weeks passed while I waited hopefully. 
Then, as often happens, the events of an hour 
changed the establishment of years, and the break 
occurred. 


87 


CHAPTER X 


A DEPARTURE AND AN ARRIVAL 

ONTRARY to my expectations, the swamp 



was in no way responsible for the change 


that took place at Camp Bon. There was no acci¬ 
dent of falling tree or glancing blade to turn a 
useful worker into a helpless cripple. The dis¬ 
turbance came from outside, and it arrived in the 
shape of a letter which was delivered to Pesson, 
a veteran of the earliest days. 

Five minutes after receiving this letter, Pesson 
was hurrying from cabin to cabin, shouting his 
good fortune as he went along. 

rlis old uncle was dead — the one who had 
owned a farm near St. Pierre. Now the farm 
had come to him as the nearest relative, and the 
lawyer had written that he might take possession 
of it immediately. There would be no more chop- 


88 


A DEPARTURE AND AN ARRIVAL 


ping down trees for Jacques Pesson. Instead he 
would spend his age beneath his own roof, watch¬ 
ing the green things come up out of the ground. 

So he went on until, having exhausted the con¬ 
gratulations of his companions, he reported his 
inheritance to Voltaire Bon. 

The leader received the news with every evi¬ 
dence of annoyance and regret. A huge, rugged 
old man, with rough-hewn features and a white 
flow of beard, he gave one the impression of 
having existed unchanged throughout the ages. 
It was as impossible to consider that Voltaire Bon 
had once been an infant as it was to realize that 
he would not endure forever. 

''Bien, Jacques,” said he, when Pesson had fin¬ 
ished his tale. “Your luck is our misfortune. 
You will be wanting to leave at once?” 

“To-morrow, M’sieu,” replied Pesson. “This 
lawyer writes fairly enough, but words and deeds 
are ever two different things. I shall not rest 
easy now until I have turned the key in my own 
door.” 


89 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“As you please,” agreed the leader. “Only you 
must pass the word of a vacant place here as you 
go out.” 

“Have no fear, M’sieu,” Pesson assured him. 
“I know the very man for you, and will have him 
here in less than no time. Ever since my old 
uncle has been sick I have been looking about. 

“And this man?” questioned the leader doubt¬ 
fully. 

“His name is Var, and he is with Joe Coudron’s 
crew far out near the edge,” replied Pesson. “He 
is young, but he swings a good ax, and he is also 
a master at minding his own business. If you are 
not satisfied with him I, for one, shall be very 
much surprised.” 

Early next morning Pesson departed, leaving 
behind him a vast amount of speculation as to his 
probable successor. Working as he did at the 
edge of the swamp, Var was little known. Some 
had met him in the stores and coffee-houses 
along the bayou, but little had been learned of 
the man in these brief encounters. 


90 


A DEPARTURE AND AN ARRIVAL 


True, Blaise Duron might have added some¬ 
thing upon his own account to the general dis¬ 
cussion, but for once in his life the big man kept 
his opinions to himself. In this, however, I felt 
that he was acting with real if unexpected wis¬ 
dom. The disagreement at Lonson’s was a thing 
of the past, and it was also a mere incident of a 
night’s dissipation. To mention it now would be 
to magnify it out of all proportion. 

As for myself, I awaited Var’s coming with 
pleased anticipation. It was not only that he had 
befriended me. It was also that he had given every 
promise of being a good companion. 

Yet, like Blaise Duron, I kept my own counsel. 
To begin with, I was little more than a stranger 
myself. Also those whom we herald with praise 
are often received with prejudice. 

Thus, when some few days later Var arrived, 
he entered the camp as an unknown quantity. All 
treated him kindly, but it was with a stiff, a for¬ 
mal kindness which seemed to say—“You are an 
outsider, and we have been here now for a long 

91 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


time. Whether you will adapt yourself to our 
ways or not, remains to be seen.” 

It was a hard task, this making a place for 
one’s self amid the traditions and prejudices of 
Camp Bon, yet Var accomplished it without slip 
or mistake of any kind. Quiet, unassuming, ever 
observant of the comfort and pleasure of others, 
he was not long in settling all doubt as to his 
ability to succeed Pesson in the cabin of the un¬ 
married men. 

“He is all right, this Var,” said his housemates 
at the end of a week. “We knew nothing of 
order or convenience before he arrived.” 

“At least he minds his own business, as Pesson 
declared he would,” said the rest of the camp. 
“Had Jacques taken a leaf out of his book, we 
might miss him the more.” 

Voltaire Bon said nothing, which was in itself 
the highest proof of success. Had Var proved 
unsatisfactory, he would have settled him with a 
word. 

As for Blaise Duron, he exhibited toward the 
92 


A DEPARTURE AND AN ARRIVAL 


newcomer that vast majestic indifference with 
which, save for his uncle, he accepted his world. 
At their first meeting he greeted Var as an abso¬ 
lute stranger. Afterward he passed him by with 
a nod or a glance. 

What Var thought of the camp in return is 
best expressed by his words to me soon after his 
arrival. 

‘Tt is a good place, Bossu,” said he, ‘^a good 
place with good people. They are narrow per¬ 
haps, but they know the meaning of home. Al¬ 
ready I feel that I would like to stay.” 

“You mean that you will settle down here?” I 
questioned. 

“Why not?” he returned. “Some day I must 
find a corner of my own. Where better than at 
Camp Bon?” 

As he spoke I fancied that he glanced toward 
Fagot’s cabin, but of this I could not be sure. 
Having been formally introduced to Jeanne up¬ 
on entering the camp, he had since then only 
seen her in passing. True, he had already told 
93 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


me that he thought her very beautiful, but this 
was a tribute that no man with good sight could 
have denied her. 

Nevertheless, although I had so little to go 
upon, I felt even then that the change had 
brought Duron a rival. At all events Var’s words 
were most encouraging. When a man speaks of 
settling down, he seldom means that he will do so 
alone. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE STAGE IS SET 

D espite my faith in Jeanne’s very evident 
charms, the month that followed Var’s ar¬ 
rival proved a sore trial to my patience. Like 
most match-makers I was eager for immediate 
results, and as the days slipped by in quiet un¬ 
eventfulness, I was driven close to exasperation. 

True I had not expected Var to press his suit 
with the headstrong rashness so common to our 
kind. Already he had shown himself to be as 
moderate as he was cautious, and the peculiar 
condition of affairs at Camp Bon demanded a 
wary approach. At the most I had expected him 
to begin by gradually passing from acquaintance¬ 
ship to friendship, but even this encouragement 
was denied me. When he met Jeanne he saluted 
95 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


her stiffly and passed on. At other times he 
was apparently unconscious of the girl’s existence. 

As was natural this conduct was accepted by 
the camp as only a further proof of Var’s adapta¬ 
bility. Had he been one of the pioneers, he could 
not have shown a more careful observance of the 
leader’s unspoken command. 

Thus it was a distinct shock to the general con¬ 
fidence when, with the ending of the month and 
of my forbearance, Var made a definite move. 
This move was only a brief call paid at Fagot’s 
cabin after the supper hour, yet had he at¬ 
tempted an elopement, he could not have de¬ 
clared his intentions more fully. Later, in an¬ 
swer to the warnings of his housemates, he went 
further and added to his deed with words. 

“My ax is Voltaire Bon’s. My affections 
are my own,” said he shortly. 

As can be imagined this speech was not long 
in reaching the ears of Blaise Duron. Deprived 
themselves, the others were only too eager to 
welcome a brother in disappointment. 

96 


THE STAGE IS SET 


To the surprise of every one, however, the 
big man remained wholly undisturbed. Half 
scornful, half amused, he dismissed the affair 
with a brief outburst of contempt and ridicule. 

“So Var is to be my rival, eh?” he growled. 
*^Bien, let him try it. Perhaps when Jeanne and 
I are through with him, we will have succeeded 
in making him even a bigger fool than Nature in¬ 
tended him to be.” 

As for the leader, he also heard of VaPs pro¬ 
posed rivalry with a shrug of indifference. 

It was only what might be expected with a 
girl as pretty as Jeanne, he declared. Also the 
newcomer would never be satisfied until he had 
had his try at winning her. If for any unknown 
reason this try should show signs of prospering, 
he, Voltaire Bon, would interfere at once. Other¬ 
wise the sooner Var was dismissed the better. 

Most men, upon being allowed such a free 
hand, would have rushed at once to their de¬ 
struction. Var, however, was one of the rare 
sort who merely redouble their caution at the 
97 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


appearance of success. After paying that first 
call he returned to his former policy of quiet 
waiting until the camp, having exhausted the 
possibilities of the situation, passed on to some¬ 
thing of fresher interest. Thus, when later on he 
prepared to resume his attentions, he provoked 
only a mild amusement. 

‘‘Our little moth is after the candle again,” 
smiled the swampers. “He will not rest content 
now until he has had his wings well singed.” 

But despite their predictions, Var continued to 
hover with ever-increasing wariness about the 
flame of his desire. Indeed, so skilfully did he 
conduct his campaign that where Jeanne may or 
may not have discovered the earnest lover. Fagot 
saw only the casual friend. 

For myself, Var's second call had settled all 
doubt as to the ultimate outcome of the affair. 
Indeed, so sure was I, that I spoke to him the 
very next morning. 

“Marcel, the time may come when you will need 
a friend here. If so, you will find me ready.” 

98 


THE STAGE IS SET 


**Bien, Bossu/' he replied. ‘T will not forget.” 

That was all, yet it doubled my assurance. 
Now I knew that Var was merely lulling the 
public suspicion before making a final move. 
When the opportunity presented itself he would 
strike again, and this time he would strike hard. 

Thus, with the arrival of summer. Camp Bon’s 
little woodland stage was set as for a play. Per¬ 
haps, through their lack of evidence, the inhabi¬ 
tants did not realize this. To my watchful eyes 
it was all only toO' plain. 

Duron, confident in his possession, was acting 
with a contemptuous assurance that must go far 
toward destroying him in the eyes of any self- 
respecting girl. Var, realizing this advantage, 
was patiently biding his time. 

Jeanne alone remained a mystery. Young 
and care-free, it was impossible to predict her 
course. The play might be either a tragedy or a 
comedy. It all depended upon her choice. 

So the set stage waited until, upon the Four¬ 
teenth of July, the play began. 

99 


CHAPTER XII 

A SWAMP FETE 

I T WAS the custom of Voltaire Bon to hold at 
his camp a fete upon the fourteenth of each 
July. His youth had been spent among the towns 
outside, and to the swamp he had brought with 
him an undying memory of those celebrations 
wherewith our folk are wont to commemorate 
the fall of the Bastille. Beginning in a small way 
with a ball, or perhaps only a feast of gumbo, he 
had added each year to the fun with sports and 
competitions, until now the affair was known 
throughout the length and breadth of the swamp. 

As Mardi Gras is to the dweller in the city, as 
Christmas is to the town-folk, so was the four¬ 
teenth of July to the swampers. They spoke of 
the fete throughout the year, they measured their 


lOO 


< 

A SWAMP l-*feTE 

fcatft of ntrenf^h f/r of ftkill accordin^^ to it« stand- 
arris. JJui a pinjf^it fly swifter, an ax bite rkeper, 
or a tree fail truer than usual, he who was re- 
spr>nsiWc would exclaim—'^Ah, but I shouW 
have savcrl that for the fr>urteenth/^ And when 
the rlay came around, there was no hope of hold¬ 
ing erven the most distant swampers to their 
wr>rk. 'rbey would as sorm have htx/red upon 
Grxxl Frirlay, 

I'hey Ixrgan to arrive as earfy as the morning 
f/f the thirteenth, and from then on a scattered 
stream of visitors jxxired into the camp. They 
came in i>irr^ucs, in flat-br>ats, in borrrjrwed gas¬ 
oline launches. Once even a tow boat swung out 
of her course to leave behind a fiddler, and a 
chattering flock of girls who had come up from 
outside. 

The broad open reach in front was half hidden 
by a multitude of small craft. The short curve 
of high land was dr/tterl with the innumerable 
camfw of the visitors. The swampers, driven out 
of their cabias to make room for the women-folk, 


lOI 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


took refuge with their friends, and hoped that 
the weather would remain clear. The air was 
thick with the smoke of many campfires. The 
silence of the swamp was made as naught by the 
shouts of the men, the laughter of the girls. The 
very birds skimmed madly about, as though im¬ 
bued with the spirit of the hour. 

It was a time of joy, of revelry, and over it all 
Voltaire Bon presided with a dignity, a courtesy, 
that could have been equaled by few. Enthroned 
in state upon his landing, he received each visitor 
as he arrived, placing him unerringly in his well- 
ordered memory, even recalling at times some 
special feat of the year before. 

“Welcome, Vital,” he would say. “And have 
you brought your ax with you again? Our own 
Ledet has made some records lately, so if you 
would win this time, you must stir yourself.” 

But if Voltaire Bon was the king of it all, 
Jeanne was queen. Many girls came to the fete 
that year, most of them pretty, some of them 
beautiful, yet there was none who could match 


102 


A SWAMP FETE 


the dark Spanish loveliness of old Fagot’s daugh¬ 
ter. Clad in a new crimson dress that she had 
saved for this occasion, she darted about amid 
the ever shifting groups like some bright flash 
of laughter and joy. They were mad about her, 
those visiting swampers. They claimed her for 
the ball that night. They promised her their 
prizes if they were fortunate enough to win. For 
the most part they were free rovers of no perma^ 
nent camp, and in the matter of a pretty face they 
hearkened to no man’s command. 

Yet Duron did not appear jealous. Rather he 
seemed to take pride in the popularity of his fu¬ 
ture wife. He agreed heartily to the praises of 
the others. He even added loud boisterous com¬ 
mendations of his own. He was like one who, 
having gained possession of a prize, lauds it 
openly for the purpose of self-glorification. 

Var, upon the other hand, seemed ill at ease. 
Everywhere that Jeanne went he followed her 
with eyes which held a look of fixed purpose sudi 
as I had seldom seen. 


103 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“So, Bossu,” I said to myself. “It will not be 
long now before something happens. Also, if 
he is true to that look, the something will be 
worth while.” 

The morning of the fourteenth broke bright 
and clear and, with the rising of the sun, the 
sports began. There were running, jumping, 
wrestling, boxing, a shooting-match—even some 
fights with game cocks. Afterward all crossed 
to the near-by cypress where were held the more 
important contests of the swamper’s art. Trees 
were thrown in the shortest possible space of 
time. Logs were trimmed as if by magic. Rafts 
were made, so it seemed, in the twinkling of an 
eye. 

They were gay but earnest, these men of the 
swamp; going about their tasks with a swiftness 
and precision that were wonderful to see. It was 
play perhaps, but it was also the real business of 
the day; for he who could establish his supremacy 
over tree, or log, or raft, would be, for the com¬ 
ing year, a king among his kind. 


104 


A SWAMP FETE 

So the fete continued with its victories and dis¬ 
appointments. The judges were fair, and the 
prizes, if simple, were hard won. The contests 
were open to all. I had been asked to take part in 
the shooting, but had declined—feeling myself an 
outsider—and the prize had gone to Duron. 

To his skill with his gun Duron had added 
other victories, and when all repaired to the feast 
that had been laid by the women, the big man 
could scarce contain his importance. Blustering, 
bragging, he strutted about, followed by a train 
of admirers. For weeks he had been laying in a 
supply of liquor, and upon each visit to his cache 
the throng about him increased. His friends 
seemed as numerous as his bottles. 

Var became even more quiet and reserved than 
usual. He was a skilful swamper, but he had 
been matched against the very flower of his 
calling. He had done well, but no more, and to 
his credit there was no positive victory. Yet it 
was whispered by those who knew him that, in 
the final event, he would redeem himself. 

105 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


At the feast he ate moderately, refusing each 
offer of the wine that flowed on every hand. His 
comrades joked him about his temperance, but I, 
remembering Lonson’s, nodded a wise head. 
Upon that occasion at least, his abstinence had 
paid. Perhaps it would pay again. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE RACE 

S O THE day wore on until, in the late after¬ 
noon, there came the final event. This 
event, the pirogue race, was always reserved for 
the last, on account of its great popularity. It is 
curious that, in all the sports and pastimes known 
to mankind, none can take the place of a race. 
We may applaud, we may admire all other con¬ 
tests, but to them there is denied that tense ex¬ 
citement, that nerve-wracking suspense, which 
attends an exhibition of speed. 

The swampers had looked on at the felling of 
trees, the making of rafts with the grave interest 
of men enjoying the skill of a master workman. 
Now they crowded down to the water’s edge like 
a band of school-boys upon a holiday, laughing, 
107 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


shouting, making bets among themselves, calling 
out words of advice or encouragement to their 
favorite contestants. 

Of these contestants, Blaise Duron was per¬ 
haps the most promising. He had lost the race 
by the merest fraction the year before, and the 
man who had beaten him: was now out of the run¬ 
ning. This man—a swamper from an inner 
camp, with an arm suddenly twisted by rheuma¬ 
tism^—spoke confidently to Voltaire Bon of his 
nephew’s success. 

‘‘Blaise will win,” he prophesied as the racers 
entered their pirogues. ‘T know them all, save 
only your new man Var, and you can see that he 
has not the necessary strength. Perez is swift, 
but not swift enough. Yes, my friend, once again 
you will keep the prize in your own home. I 
tell you that it is your year.” 

To this the leader made no reply, but in his 
rugged face one could see a slowly-increasing 
look of satisfaction. As a younger man he had 
won twice in three years, and now, through cour- 
io8 


THE RACE 


tesy, he was always called upon to judge the 
race’s end. The prize—a little bar of silver 
roughly beaten into the shape of a paddle—^he 
held with a touch almost of reverence. Perhaps 
he was thinking of the day when he had first 
pinned it upon the bosom of his wife. 

The race was to begin at the edge of the 
swamp and end at the leader’s landing. A short 
course for these men of the waterways, it called 
merely for the greatest skill and endurance. He 
who would win must keep the pace throughout. 
It was paddle your best from the first, fresh 
stroke to the last, tortured effort at the finish 
line. 

As the racers moved away toward the trees, a 
cheer went up from the watchers along the shore. 
It was a sight that I will long remember—that 
broad reach of sunlit water, marred in its center 
by the smoothly skimming craft. The racing 
pirogues, frail and shell-like, sped precariously, 
needing only some hostile touch to overturn. The 
racers paddled with slow easy strokes, saving 
109 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


themselves for what was to come. And as they 
went each acted according to his kind; some 
wasting their breath in useless boasting, others 
pinning their faith to a still tongue and a flying 
paddle. 

Duron, huge and powerful, answered the call 
of his admirers with a shout of confidence. Var, 
sinewy and compact, bent silently to his work. 
Perez, a close contestant of the year before, 
moved doggedly along in the rear, as though to 
preserve the last ounce of his strength. There 
were others, but they were of little interest to 
the crowd. In that land of flooded forests their 
powers were only too well known. 

The pirogues reached the edge of the swamp, 
and formed into a line before the wall of trees. 
Instantly a hush fell upon the crowd, and all 
leaned forward in one great concentration of 
gaze. Then there came the report of a gtm— 
sounding dull and flat across the stretch of 
water—and the sunlight flashed upon the paddles 
as the line sprang into life. 


no 


THE RACE 


Almost immediately the racers drew away into 
two groups. In front, three pirogues sped arrow¬ 
like toward the goal. Behind, the other craft 
drove half-heartedly forward, as though in dis¬ 
gust at a race already lost. 

The crowd cheered madly for the favorites 
while I, forgetful of my host in my excitement, 
began to shout directions to my champion. 

“Easy, easy, Var,” I called. “He can not keep 
up that pace for long. Save yourself for the end. 
That is what will count.’' 

Fagot, who stood beside me, gave me a quick 
glance of surprise. 

“Are you not for Duron?” he questioned. 
“True, Var served you a good turn, but think of 
Jeanne. Would you not like to see her wear the 
prize ?” 

“Jeanne will wear it, never fear,” I answered 
him. “You should use your eyes, my friend.” 

On came the three, and as they drew nearer, it 
became ever more apparent that my directions 
were not to be despised. Upon the right, Duron, 


III 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


who led, dug in his paddle with quick powerful 
strokes that tore the still surface of the water 
into scattered foam. Sure of himself, contempt¬ 
uous of the others, he staked his chances upon his 
great strength of arm. It was wonderful, that 
swift hurling of his great bulk through the water, 
but the pace was one that no man could stand for 
long. Already, so it seemed to me, his strokes 
were lessening in speed and power, while in his 
crimson face and staring eyes the lesson of his 
recent excesses could be plainly read. 

In the middle Perez forged along with varying 
success. Now he was a length behind. Now he 
crept forward to hang for an instant in the lead, 
before dropping back his length again. His ef¬ 
forts were brief and uncertain, and each moment 
they grew weaker. Although confident of de¬ 
feat, he was dogged to the end. 

Upon the left, Var held his position of one- 
half length behind with a persistency that was 
maddening to the crowd. His stroke was slow 
but steady, and if he did not gain, he also never 
lost. Bent low as he was, I could not see his 


II2 


THE RACE 


face, but there was something about his easy 
regular movements that spoke of a well-nigh ex¬ 
haustless energy. The young men called to him 
impatiently, crying that he should either go 
ahead or drop back, but from the older folk there 
arose a low murmur of appreciation. 

‘'That is paddling,’’ said one. “It does not 
look like it, but it is.” 

“He is wearing Duron down,” said another. 
“He may win yet, if he can only keep his teeth 
in the big man’s throat.” 

As the first speaker had said, it was paddling. 
It was not showy; rather, there was something 
about it that was almost uncanny. It did not ap¬ 
pear to be a matter of strokes, however skilful. 
It was as though, instead of moving, the pirogue 
was held in its never changing position by some 
smooth, uninterrupted force. 

On sped the three until, near the finish line, 
Duron put all his waning strength into one final 
effort. Swiftly he shot ahead, and as he came, 
Var sped unerringly behind him-, as though 
tcjwed by some invisible cord. It was the end, 

113 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


and, as the big man dropped desperately back, 
Var inched steadily forward. 

But if Duron had lost, it soon became evident 
that he intended Var to lose also. Fiercely the 
big man struggled, losing his lead, and then, 
with a sudden wrenching side stroke, he whirled 
his pirogue inward toward that of his opponent. 
An instant and those twO' frail shells would have 
collided, but in that instant Perez, from his posi¬ 
tion in between, made a final effort of his own. 
Forward he shot with the strength of despair, 
only to receive the full force of Duron’s side- 
stroke upon the bow of his advancing pirogue. 

It was a glancing blow, and by lurching to 
the swing of it, Perez managed to save himself. 
Duron was not so fortunate. Handicapped by his 
great size and weight, he flung back violently 
from' the impact, and with one huge struggling 
splash, disappeared into the water. 

When he arose to the surface an instant later, 
it was to see Var skim over the finish line with 
Perez a good two lengths behind him. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE FLOUTING OF DURON 

N OW all that I have described of Duron’s 
trickery took place in a brief flash of time. 
To one unskilled in such matters the collision of 
the pirogues might have appeared as only an ac¬ 
cident of the race. But there was no deceiving 
men whose lives were spent upon shallow water, 
and as Var, coming about, swung in to the land¬ 
ing, he was received with a shout of sympathy 
and good will. 

“Well done, little one,” came the cries. “It is 
fortunate that you are as lucky as you are 
honest.” 

As for Voltaire Bon, nothing could have out¬ 
raged more his sense of justice. Crimson with 
rage and mortification, he glared silently out to 

115 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


where his nephew swam slowly> ashore. If at 
that moment Duron had called for aid, I do not 
believe that he would have lifted a finger to save 
him. 

Always before it had been the leader’s habit to 
deliver a little speech upon the presentation of the 
prize, but now, when the winner stood before 
him, he spoke only a few bitter words. 

“Here, Marcel,” said he, as he held out the 
silver token. “You have raced well and fairly. 
I can say no more.” 

Then the leader rose to his feet and walked 
with bent head to his cabin, there to remain un¬ 
til the opening of the ball that night. It was not 
a pleasant thing to witness his shame and grief, 
and as he passed along the crowd divided silently 
before him'. Under other conditions it would 
have cheered itself hoarse for the victor. Now, 
through their love and reverence for their ancient 
host, these rough swampers paid him the respect 
of their silence. 

Gravely Var watched him go before he, in 
ii6 


THE FLOUTING OF DURON 


turn, faced the crowd. It was his moment of tri¬ 
umph and, according to custom, it was something 
more. As the winner of the pirogue race he 
must, through the disposal of his prize, acknowl¬ 
edge his attitude toward the other sex. If he 
fastened the token upon his hat or blouse it 
meant that, for the present at least, his affections 
were free. If, upon the other hand, he had set 
his heart on the winning of some girl, then, if 
this girl were present, he must offer her his prize 
in plain sight of all. Should she accept it, he 
might hope for success. Should she refuse, it 
meant that any further effort upon his part would 
prove but a waste of time. 

There fell a sudden tenseness on the silence of 
the crowd as it turned its gaze upon the winner. 
Rumors had flown thick and fast since the end¬ 
ing of the race, and it was whispered that there 
was still another surprise to come. Men glanced 
to where Duron stood dripping and sullen upon 
the end of the landing, and wondered if his rival 
would dare. 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Slowly, carefully Var swept the circle of faces 
until his gaze rested upon Fagot’s daughter. 
Then, stepping quietly forward, he held out the 
prize to Jeanne. 

‘Tor you, if you will have it,” said he. 

Blushing, smiling, the girl stretched forth her 
hand. ‘T thank you, M’sieu,” she began, but the 
rest of her words were lost in a roar of rage as 
Duron charged up the landing. 

“Refuse, Jeanne, refuse,” he ordered furi¬ 
ously. “A joke is a joke, I know, but there is 
such a thing as carrying one too far. At least I 
will see that you play none of your tricks upon 
him.” 

The girl’s smile flashed out to be replaced by 
a look that was altogether new. She did not 
flare into one of her usual tempers. Rather she 
seemed to freeze into a chill and deadly calm. 

“Tricks, Blaise?” she retorted. “Is it not you, 
yourself, who are the cleverer at such things ?” 

Thus accused, and by his sweetheart, the big 
man began to bluster. 

ii8 


THE FLOUTING OF DURON 


‘T played no trick/’ he roared. ^T sought only 
to swing closer inside, and my stroke was false. 
Have there not been a hundred spills before? I 
am prepared to answer any man who doubts my 
word. But enough of this. Refuse that trinket 
as is your duty.” 

‘^And why is it my duty, Blaise?” asked the 
girl in the same calm tone. 

At this the big man gaped in genuine surprise. 
Had he been sensible he would, for the moment, 
have abandoned the affair. Jeanne was plainly 
in a dangerous mood, and he, bedraggled and 
disgraced, was ill fitted either to demand or ap¬ 
peal. But toward Duron nature had been far 
more generous with body than with brain. 

“Why is it your duty?” he bellowed. “Are 
you mad, Jeanne, to ask such a thing? Are you 
not my promised wife? It is I, your future hus¬ 
band, who command you.” 

The girl gave a short scornful laugh that rang 
upon the silence with a cold sharpness, like that 
of steel. 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘Tf, as you say, you have received a promise, 
it has most certainly not come from myself,” she 
replied. '*Am I an ax or a boat that I am to be 
given away without a word of my own? Next 
time you try, Blaise, get your promise from the 
girl herself, since she alone can make sure of its 
fulfillment.” 

Fastening the token upon her dress, she turned 
to where Var was awaiting the outcome of his 
offer. 

‘T thank you, M’sieu,” said she again, and 
without so much as a glance in the big man’s 
direction, she set off toward her home. 

Duron, flouted before the crowd, stared 
vaguely about him, as though he found it impos¬ 
sible to believe that he had heard aright. Had he 
been quicker, had he not been held by his abso¬ 
lute amazement, he must have flown into a ter¬ 
rible rage. As it was his old conceit and self- 
assurance came flooding back to him, calming 
his temper, and sparing him from the conse¬ 
quences of some violent act. Sneeringly he 


120 


THE FLOUTING OF DURON 


snapped a thumb and forefinger at Jeanne’s re¬ 
treating form. 

said he, half to himself and half to the 
crowd. “There goes a little cat that I will pres¬ 
ently tame.” 

He paused, and for an instant glared at his 
silent rival. 

“As for you, M’sieu Spoil-sport,” he went on, 
“it is high time that we had a reckoning. We 
will discuss this affair at the first favorable op¬ 
portunity.” 


CHAPTER XV ' 

A TRUCE 

S FAGOT and I followed the others up 



from the water’s edge, the old man seemed 
greatly disturbed. We had witnessed the affair 
from a distance of but a few feet and, when 
Jeanne had first begun her words of cold rejec¬ 
tion, her father had started forward to interfere. 
But I had caught his arm, and he had listened to 
all that followed in bewildered silence, blinking 
his kind old eyes as at some impossible spectacle. 
Now, for the first time, he found his tongue. 

*'Dieu, Bossu,” he gasped. ‘'Was it really my 
child who spoke? Why the match was arranged 
long ago. It was my one way of returning the 
leader’s kindness. Jeanne has her tempers, T 
know, but to say such things, and before them 


122 


A TRUCE 


all—. What will Voltaire Bon say? What can 
J say to hijn?" 

Before rei)lyin|;^ I led the old man out of ear¬ 
shot of the crowd. The time had come for him 
to understand certain things to which, all along, 
he had been blind. 

‘T^'agot/* 1 began, ^*you are viewing this affair 
from the wrong standpoint. Suppose now that 
you look at it for a moment not through the lead¬ 
er's eyes, but tlirough Jeanne's. As she asked, is 
she an ax or a boat, that she is to be given away 
without a word of her own? Also consider Dur¬ 
on's treatment of her. Has he ever shown her 
the love, the desire of a true man? Answer these 
(luestions before you condemn your daughter." 

I'agot growled impatiently. 

"Your questions are easily answered, Bossu," 
he rqdied. "If Jeanne has l)een given away 
without a word of her own, it has been only be¬ 
cause she, herself, has not chosen to speak that 
word. As for Duron, perhaps he has not been 
very ardent, Init what would you have? In these 
123 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


boy-and-girl affairs, love is apt to become stale. 
Also it is not every pretty face that wins a pros¬ 
pective leader. No, I can not understand, unless 
the girl is mad.’^ 

‘‘She is not mad. Fagot,’’ I persisted. “She is 
only human, she is only obeying the commands 
of her woman’s pride. You seem to forget, my 
friend, that Jeanne had a mother. Consider your 
wife. What would she have done in such a case?” 

The old man nodded slowly. Through the 
past, he was beginning to understand. 

“That is true, Bossu,” he admitted. “Jeanne 
did have a mother, and such a mother. Why I 
was her poorest chance, yet she married me de¬ 
spite the protests of her entire family. As for 
what occurred just now, had she been in Jeanne’s 
shoes, Duron would not have got off as easily as 
he did.” 

He paused, half smiling as at some vision bom 
of his thoughts, while I lost little time in follow¬ 
ing up the advantage that I had gained. 

“Then think of this when you speak to 


124 


A TRUCE 


Jeanne,” I advised. ^‘You can not drive her, and 
she is counting upon your sympathy. Be your 
own gentle self, and all may yet be well.” 

By now we had reached the cabin from which 
we had been evicted the day before by the visit¬ 
ing women-folk. Therefore, like some visitor, 
Fagot limped up and knocked for admission. 
Jeanne herself opened the door, but I did not fol¬ 
low the old man inside. It was his affair, and, 
now that he understood, I knew that he would 
make no mistakes. 

So I turned away to the temporary camp we had 
made for the time of the fete where, after some 
thirty minutes or more, Fagot rejoined me. 

“Well?" I questioned. 

Fagot spread out his hands. 

“What can I say?” he complained. “I do not 
know my child. She is another person. You 
remember that winter morning in the woods, 
Bossu, when we went out to the coulee and found 
it frozen over? Jeanne is like that, hard, and 
cold—and strange. 


125 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘True, she spoke to me, but her words were 
like a handful of shot. Was she nothing, she 
asked, that I sought to give her away? Or was 
it that I was tired of her, and wished the cabin 
for myself? 

“As for Blaise Duron, she declares that he is 
a cheat and a bully. Also that, come what may, 
she will never marry him.^' 

“And Var?’’ I asked. 

The old man’s look of perplexity deepened. 

“That is just it,” he grumbled. “She will say 
nothing of Var. Not one word, Bossu, despite 
my questionings. And why? If she loves the 
man, it is time to say so. If not, why turn 
against Duron?” 

He paused to look at me helplessly. 

“I am all mixed up, Bossu,” he ended. “I tell 
you that I do not know my own child.” 

“Wait, my friend,” I counseled. “As you say, 
Jeanne is not herself, but it is only for the mo¬ 
ment. When she has cooled down she will tell 
you everything. 


126 


A TRUCE 


‘‘Should she love Var, at least you will have a 
proper son-in-law. Otherwise, her flouting of 
Duron may prove his salvation. Without his 
bluster he might be a worthy nephew of Voltaire 
Bon.” 

Thus I spoke, but all the time I knew that 
Duron would never change. Through the years 
of self-indulgence and bravado his shell of con¬ 
ceit had become far too thick to be pierced by 
any human thrust. 

For Var I felt only an increased esteem. I 
had not forgot his service to me that day upon 
the bayou, and his actions after the race had 
thoroughly aroused my admiration. Now that 
he had declared himself fully, I determined that 
I would do all in my power to further his suit. 
Also, in the matter of his affair vdth Duron, I 
meant to stand his friend. 

I had feared that the two would clash at once, 
but on this point Fagot quickly undeceived me. 
There would be no settlement of differences 
while a single visitor remained at the camp. This 
127 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


was the one chief law of the fete, and, although 
he never interfered in such matters at other 
times, Voltaire Bon was ever prompt in its en¬ 
forcement. For years the general enjoyment had 
been unmarred by any disturbance. 

That this was true I learned when, a little 
later, I made the round of the camp. From every 
side came a hum of excited talk, but through it 
all there ran no note of apprehension. Once more 
rumors flew thick and fast. It was said that, 
through sympathy, the leader had become recon¬ 
ciled to Duron; that he himself would command 
Jeanne to return the token, and that he would 
insist on an immediate marriage. Again it was 
declared that Voltaire Bon had cast off his 
nephew, that he had openly praised Jeanne as a 
girl of courage, and that he would bespeak the 
future leadership for Var. 

Each had his opinion which he aired with the 
freedom of the wild. It was a little thing, per¬ 
haps, this flouting of a man by a girl, yet, in the 
swamps, it is the little things that count. With 
128 


A TRUCE 


folk who are eternally at war with a merciless 
nature, such matters as death, and accident, and 
sudden disaster are merely looked on as a part of 
the day’s work. 

So, to the accompaniment of an endless babble 
)f comment and conjecture, the night closed 
down, and the ball began. As was customary the 
dancing started in the home of the leader, but 
through lack of space it soon extended itself 
outdoors. All along the flat open stretch before 
the cabins the dancers whirled to the scrape of 
the fiddle, while the moon shone down in a great 
flood of silver, and the stars twinkled brightly, 
as though each meant to add its utmost gleam to 
the fun. 

Also, with the first touch of bow to string, the 
affair of the afternoon seemed completely for¬ 
gotten. It was all right while waiting for the 
dark to wonder what the leader would say, how 
Duron would act, and in what manner Var would 
respond. Now matters of more importance were 
afoot. The fiddle called, the girls waited, the 


129 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


moonlight vied with the lamps inside. For the 
moment a truce was declared, a truce which ex¬ 
tended to the very combatants themselves. 

Jeanne, all beauty and gentleness, swung with 
unclouded brow through the figures of the dance. 
Duron, arrogant and unashamed, swaggered 
from one partner to another with an unsteadi¬ 
ness born of innumerable visits to his cache. Var, 
lifted out of his usual gravity by the merriment 
of the occasion, footed it with the best. 

And over them all Voltaire Bon presided with 
that calm dignity: which was his alone. He was 
a leader unsurpassed, as was evidenced by the 
conduct of the ball. It was as though he had 
said to the members of his camp — ‘‘While my 
guests are here you will behave” — and they, for¬ 
getting their differences, had answered with a 
smile. 

They danced all night, those swamp-folk, 
crowding as best they could inside the cabin 
when the moonlight waned. And then, with the 
rising of the sun, they set forth toward their 
130 


A TRUCE 


homes. Throughotit the morning the boats 
moved off into the shadows of the swamp until 
no visitor remained. 

That night the three of us gathered again in 
Fagot's cabin, but there was little talk before the 
light was put out. Jeanne, despite her wearing 
of the silver token, preserved a cold silence to¬ 
ward the events of the day before. Fagot, true 
to his kindly nature, seeme^l content to enjoy to 
the utmost the leader's truce. 

As for myself, I too was well satisfied to await 
the turn of events. Trouble was due, I knew, 
but it would not come until the morrow. That, 
if possible, I would Ije present when it arrived, I 
promised myself. For the moment I could do 


no more. 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE MEETING 

W HEN, at daybreak the following morn¬ 
ing, Jeanne broke her silence, it was 
only with a word of request. 

“Bossu,’’ she began, ‘‘you have often said that 
you would like to repay what you are pleased to 
call my kindness. Are you still of the same 
mind?” 

“I am at your command,” I answered her. 
“Then,” said she, “go with the men to the 
swamp to-day. My father is unable, and I am a 
woman. You understand what I mean?” 

“I would have gone without your asking,” I 
replied. “As you know, I am in Marcel’s debt 
as well as your own. If all felt toward him as I 
do, he would have nothing to fear.” 


132 


THE MEETING 


I waited and, when the girl did not speak, I 
made another try. 

‘‘And you, Jeanne?” I asked. “What of your 
feeling for Marcel? Do you really love him?” 

But my question served only to bring back 
Jeanne^s former hardness. 

“Love?” she exclaimed, “Is this the time to 
talk of love ? What we need now is fair play. I 
shall count upon you, Bossu.” 

So, respecting her anxiety, I left her with a 
word of assurance and went down to where the 
men were setting forth for the swamp. The day 
was Saturday and the swampers, heavy-eyed and 
listless from their recent gaiety, went about their 
departure with a growl of protest. At first they 
appeared only concerned in deploring the fact 
that their labor must intervene before the rest of 
the coming Sabbath. As I watched them closer, I 
came to see that each man was keyed to a high 
state of tension. Glances, shrugs, whispers, were 
covertly exchanged. Each moment Duron and 
Var were subjected to swift looks of appraisal. 

133 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


As for these two, they seemed somehow set 
apart from the rest. It was as though they had 
been placed in some spot to themselves, while the 
others stood by and waited. Duron, huge and 
sullen, glared malignantly from bloodshot eyes. 
Var, apparently as composed as usual, displayed 
upon closer inspection a certain tightness about 
the muscles of his mouth. 

Among them all Voltaire Bon alone seemed 
undisturbed. Brisk and alert, he hurried the de¬ 
parture of his men with an air of absolute un¬ 
concern. 

‘‘Come, my friends,^^ he cried, as he stepped 
into his pirogue. “Already we are late. I shall 
expect a full day’s work from each one of you.” 

It was his usual word of parting, but upon this 
particular occasion it carried an added meaning. 
“My guests are gone, and you may settle your 
differences as you please, only you must first do 
your work,” was what the leader had also said. 

As the men straggled away from the landings, 
I drove my pirogue toward that of Var until the 
two moved along side by side. 


134 


THE MEETING 


‘‘Marcel/’ said I, “once I told you that the 
day might come when you would need me. It is 
here, and I am ready.” 

The young man gave me a look of gratitude. 

“I thank you, Bossu,” he returned. “How¬ 
ever, there will be nothing unusual afoot until 
sunset. You heard what the leader said?” 

“Yes,” I replied. “And what will you do at 
sunset ?” 

“I will stand alone,” he answered simply. “I 
can only thank you for your offer, as I have done 
with others. At all events I have found some 
friends.” 

“But have you considered your position?” I 
protested. “Duron has twice your size and 
strength, he is the better shot, and, as you must 
have learned from the race, he will take any un¬ 
fair advantage. Before you leave the swamp to¬ 
night he will stop you and force a quarrel upon 
you. Unless you have some friend to stand by 
and see fair play, you will never come out alive.” 

Var nodded, but there was only a look of pur¬ 
pose in his steady gaze. 


T35 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘You are right, Bossu,'' he agreed, “but, as I 
once told you, there is more than one way out of 
a quarrel. You remember Lonson’s? Again I 
have formed a plan which I can best carry out 
alone. If I am successful, I will leave the en¬ 
counter unhurt. If I am not, I will at least have 
an equal chance. When I tell you that, save for 
yourself, I have confided this much to no one, I 
am sure that you will respect my wishes.” 

After this there was nothing to do but to wish 
Var success, and to leave him alone to the fulfill¬ 
ment of his plan. Nevertheless I spent the rest 
of the day in the swamp. Also, when near sun¬ 
set the Steel ceased to ring against the cypress, I 
placed myself in a position where, unseen, I could 
watch the men as they returned to the camp. 

That afternoon the swampers went out in lit¬ 
tle groups, talking in earnest voices, and casting 
frequent glances behind them. Duron, I learned, 
had been working far inside. Var, of his own 
free will, had chosen a spot even more remote. 
With each had been a companion, but these com¬ 
panions, stopping early, had joined the rest. 

136 


THE MEETING 


Thus, from his inner position, Duron would 
meet his rival deep in the swamp. As for the 
results of this meeting, the others could only 
speculate upon them. They had been told that, 
in this affair, it was “hands off” for all. 

The men paddled out of hearing while I, slip¬ 
ping from my place of concealment, turned back 
into the fast gathering dusk of the trees. I too 
had been told to keep “hands off,” but I deter¬ 
mined that I would at least have my look at this 
encounter. 

Also, I will say for myself that it was not 
mere curiosity or interest which caused me to 
thus disregard the code of the swamp. If Var 
had refused my aid, Jeanne had requested it, and 
I felt that my first duty was to her. Should Dur¬ 
on play fair, I would not make my presence 
known. Should he resort to any trick, I would 
be on hand to keep the promise that I had given 
Jeanne. 

Making my way carefully through the endless 
scatter of trunks and knees, I came finally to a 
spot where, for some time, the main crew had 
r3? 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


been working. Here, open to the air and sun¬ 
light, lay a narrow length of water, its still sur¬ 
face thickly dotted with the stumps of the van¬ 
ished trees. Save for these stumps there was 
no other cover for one wishing to cross un¬ 
noticed, and I paused for a moment at the edge 
of the trees, asking myself how best I might risk 
the passage. 

It was well that I did so, for, even as I hesi¬ 
tated, there came the splash of a paddle from my 
right, and, an instant later, a pirogue entered the 
clearing. Thrusting back behind a friendly 
trunk, I peered forth cautiously and saw that it 
was Var. By swift paddling he had made a cir¬ 
cle about his waiting enemy, and so come out 
ahead of him. 

As the young man passed, almost within 
reaching distance of me, I was sick with disap¬ 
pointment and disgust. All along he had been 
my champion. From the first moment of our 
meeting I had esteemed the promise of his clear 
gray eyes. And now, after all his talk of stand- 
138 


THE MEETING 


ing alone, he was running away. No wonder 
he had refused the offer of his friends. 

This much I thought before there broke upon 
the silence of the swamp, the sound of a man 
singing with all his voice. It was Var’s song, 
the one that he always sang, and, as looking out 
again I saw him waiting at the clearing’s end, 
the reason for his detour was instantly explained. 
Wishing to meet his enemy in the open rather 
than in the tangle beyond, he had been forced to 
swing about in front of him. Now, by singing 
an unmistakable song at the top of his lungs, he 
was making his position known. 

''You see, Bossu,” I reproved myself. "Perhaps 
this will teach you to be less hasty in future. You 
should have known better than to doubt those 
eyes.” 

Three verses of his song Var roared out upon 
the stillness before there came an answering 
sound from the far side of the swamp. Then 
Duron shot forth into the clearing with a speed 
that made the water boil. 

139 


CHAPTER XVII 

AN AFFAIR OF PIROGUES 

T SIGHT -of Var calmly awaiting his arri¬ 



val, Duron swung about with an abruptness 


that well-nigh spilled him overside. 

‘‘So,’^ he snarled. ‘T have caught you, have 
I, my friend? Your speed has not stood you as 
well as it did the other day.” 

Var surveyed the other quietly. 

“Caught me?” he echoed. “How have you 
caught me, Duron?” 

By way of reply the big man burst into a storm 
of abuse. Usually, among our folk, it is the 
custom to begin an encounter with the utmost 
politeness. Duron, however, through his violent 
chase, was beside himself with rage. 

“And you ask what I mean, you who, by 


140 


AN AFFAIR OF PIROGUES 


doubling around me, were seeking to get away?’^ 
he roared in conclusion. ‘'Tell me that this is not 
so that I may call you the liar that you are.” 

At the insult Var’s figure stiffened, but other¬ 
wise he made no move. 

“Come, Duron,” said he. “Even you can 
not accuse a man of running away when you find 
him waiting at the first open spot, and singing 
with all his might. Had you used your ears as 
well as your paddle, you would have noticed that 
my song grew louder each instant of your ap¬ 
proach. As for my returning home by a round¬ 
about way, surely that is the privilege of every 
man.” 

Duron laughed evilly. 

“That is very clever, my friend,” he sneered. 
“However, it will not serve you. Running away 
or not, we have met, which is all that I care 
about. You are going to fight me, and you are 
going to fight me now. Was my liar enough 
for you, or do you need this also to start you 
into action ?” 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


As he finished Duron thrust forward his pi¬ 
rogue with one hand, while with the other he 
drew back for a blow. It was a strong blow, and 
one that would have sent the smaller man into 
the water but, before it could descend, Var, with 
a swift stroke, backed out of reach. He still ap¬ 
peared very cool and quiet, but there was a grim¬ 
ness about his reserve now that was terrible to 
see. 

“Wait, Duron,” he warned. “There is no 
need for you to strike me. Had I not meant to 
fight you, I would never have waited at this 
spot. If, thus far, I have kept my patience, it 
has been only that you might begin the quarrel. 
Unevenly matched as we are, I at least desire the 
choice of weapons.” 

The big man grunted his contempt. 

“The choice is yours,” he agreed scornfully. 
“Only be quick, so that we may reach solid 
ground while the light lasts. Also let me advise 
you not to choose our fists. As, in that event, I 
shall most certainly beat you to death, your suf¬ 
fering will only last longer.” 


142 


AN AFFAIR OF PIROGUES 


He paused, glaring threateningly, yet Var dis¬ 
played no fear. Rather he seemed inspired with 
a sudden confidence, as at the gaining of some 
important point. 

'‘Bien, Duron,” said he with some of his pent- 
up bitterness beginning to bite into his tone. ‘‘We 
will get down to business at once. You need not 
worry about our fists, or the pistol that I see 
bulging your pocket behind. Ours will be an af¬ 
fair of pirogues, and one well fitted to our call¬ 
ing. You have your ax, and I have mine. No 
weapons could be more deadly. Before us lies 
an open stretch that might have been made by 
nature for just such a meeting. We will start at 
either end, working our way through the stumps 
toward the middle. When close enough, we will 
engage with our axes until one of us is dead. 
Come, let us take our positions.” 

He started off as he finished speaking, but 
Duron thrust in before him, blocking his way. 
The hot angry blood had drained from the big 
man’s cheeks, and his eyes were staring, as 
though with fear. 


143 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘Hold, Var,” he cried unsteadily. “I can not 
fight that way. It is not a duel that you propose. 
It is murder. At the first blow we would both 
capsize, and what then?” 

“Then it will be water for one of us instead of 
steel,” replied Var calmly. “With your greater 
strength you should have the advantage, but I 
am satisfied. One good swing with my ax is all 
that I ask for. Come, let us begin before the 
light fades entirely.” 

But Duron, as he gazed from the other’s hard 
resolute face into the still brown water, lost the 
last remnant of his false courage. 

“No, no,” he faltered. “I will not do it. It is 
irregular. It is insane. No one would fight so 
but a madman.” 

“Then you mean to tell me that, having given 
me the choice of weapons, you now refuse to 
fight?” asked Var evenly. 

“Yes,” mumbled the big man. “I at least have 
sense enough to refuse to be chopped down like a 
tree.” 


144 


AN AFFAIR OF PIROGUES 


It was over and, had he been wise, Var would 
have departed without another word. Again he 
had judged his man correctly. Again he had 
planned well. As he had predicted, he might 
have retired from the encounter unhurt. But in 
a moment of triumph it is ever hard to hold one’s 
peace, and Var, having scared his man into sub¬ 
mission, now gave him an opportunity to re¬ 
gain his wits and craft. 

“So, Duron,” he mocked. “And who is the 
spoil-sport now? You, with your skill and 
strength, were willing enough to shoot me, or to 
beat me to death, but you lack the courage to 
face me upon more equal terms. I have always 
thought you a coward since our clash at Lon- 
son’s. Now I have proved it beyond doubt. Bien, 
go your way, and explain to the camp as best you 
can how you failed to kill me.” 

At the taunt Duron shrank back as from a 
blow. Hate, fear, shame, all struggled in his 
heavy countenance, but in his eyes there dawned 
a sudden look of cunning. Slowly his lids closed 

145 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


down, his jaw thrust out, as the thought took 
shape in his crooked brain. Then he spoke, his 
voice gaining confidence with every word. 

‘‘Not so fast, my friend,” he blustered. “This 
affair, at least, will not be settled by a trick 
with cards. If I have refused to be chopped 
down like a tree, I have said nothing so far about 
doing the same thing to you. But I can best ex¬ 
plain this point with my ax. Come, I will give 
you the advantage of the farther end. Learn 
what you can of the stumps, and welcome.” 

At this I reached down for my gun, promis¬ 
ing myself that, at his first unfair movement, I 
would give Duron a broken arm. But Var still 
knew his man. 

“Very well,” he agreed. “Only first throw 
your pistol overside that, upon my way, I may 
not learn something of bullets as well as stumps. 
I, myself, am unarmed.” 

Fully expecting the big man to end the matter 
with a quick shot at close range, I covered him 
with my gun as he drew his weapon. One move- 
146 


AN AFFAIR OF PIROGUES 


merit of its barrel toward Var, and I would have 
crippled him instantly. But Duron, without a 
moment’s hesitation, flung the pistol far out into 
the water, where it sank amid a circle of widen¬ 
ing rings. An instant later, paddling as steadily 
as though he were setting forth to his work, Var 
crossed the rings upon his way to the farther end. 

What followed I will never forget. Even now 
I can see that narrow gash in the depths of the 
swamp, along which Var moved unevenly as he 
threaded a path through the squat black army 
of stumps. Not once did he glance behind him. 
Scarce an instant did he pause at the farther end 
before, turning, he raised his paddle. At the 
signal Duron set forth warily, and so the two 
closed in toward the middle where a gray shad¬ 
owless patch of water reflected the last light of 
the vanished sun. 

To me it seemed an eternity before those pi¬ 
rogues approached the middle. Gun in hand, I 
kept my eyes upon Duron, watching his every 
move. That he purposed some trick I knew, but 

147 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


at the trick I could not guess. Again and again 
I asked myself—“What is his plan?’" 

Then the pirogues reached the unshadowed 
patch, the two* exchanging paddle for ax rose 
carefully to their feet, and I forgot my problem 
and all else in the terrible fascination of the mo¬ 
ment. 

That was something to remember, that dread¬ 
ful pause while the pirogues drifted within 
reach. Var, straight and trim, stood frankly up¬ 
right, his ax poised for his one wished-for blow. 
Duron, bent and hulking, leaned sullenly for¬ 
ward, his weapon held down at his side, as 
though for a mighty swing. Half mad with 
suspense, I too leaned far out of my pirogue, 
dropping my gun. 

And then, while the twO' were still some few 
feet beyond reach, Duron’s arm flashed suddenly 
up and outward. Snap went his wrist as the ax 
left his hand, flying arrow-like toward his en¬ 
emy. It was a dangerous trick, since it left the 
player unarmed, but at that short distance Var 
148 


AN AFFAIR OF PIROGUES 


had no chance to dodge. Caught fairly upon the 
brow by the heavy steel head of the ax, he went 
down like a poled ox into the water. 

With the first thud of the blow I snatched my 
gun, but already I was too late. Pursued by 
horror, and certain that the water would finish 
whatever he might have left undone, Duron 
wasted not an instant in flight. With a few swift 
strokes he crossed the stretch and, before I could 
aim, disappeared amid the blackness of the trees. 

Dropping my gun again, I hurried forth from 
my hiding-place to the aid of Var. It was well 
that I did so, for he floated face downward, al¬ 
ready half sunk in the water. Had I taken the 
time for my intended shot, he would most cer¬ 
tainly have drowned. As it was, while dragging 
him upon a stump and from thence into my 
pirogue, I thought him dead. Later, on examin¬ 
ation, I found that he still breathed. Upon his 
brow a great ragged gash marked the spot where 
the ax had plowed, but in the dusk I could not 
estimate the seriousness of the wound. 


149 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


So, having stanched the blood as best I could, 
I put back at all speed to the camp. It was a 
weird endless journey, rendered especially diffi¬ 
cult by the darkness and the added weight, and 
all the way the white face of Var stared up at 
me silently from the bottom of my pirogue. 


CHAPTER XVni 


THE HEARING 

1 CLEARED the swamp and made the camp 
where, upon my calling for aid, Ledet, Mamus 
and Trappey came hurrying forth from the cabin 
of the unmarried men. They had been anxious 
about their mate, these single ones, and had 
therefore not retired for the night. With their 
help I got Var quickly into his bunk and, by the 
light of the lamp, examined his wound. 

As I have said, it was a long ragged gash 
which, for him, was lucky. Had the head of the 
ax struck fairly instead of plowing along, it 
would have smashed his skull, killing him in¬ 
stantly. As it was he had received a glancing 
blow which, although of terrible force, had left 
the bone unbroken. Now all depended on the 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


damage inside. Should he regain consciousness, 
I felt that he might have a good chance for re¬ 
covery. 

“He will live?” asked the swampers as I rose 
from my examination. 

“Perhaps,” said I. “Much depends upon 
the care that he receives. This is a case for 
Jeanne, and one of you must fetch her at once. 
Also we will need bandages and clear water.” 

In an instant Ledet and Mamus had departed 
outside, while Trappey, hurrying to a cupboard 
in the comer, drew forth the roll of linen that 
was kept for such an emergency. It was typical 
of these men that they wasted no time in further 
questioning. For the moment their one thought 
was of their comrade. When he was cared for 
their curiosity could have its turn. 

Jeanne arrived, accompanied by her father, 
and hurried straight to the bunk. **Dieu/' she 
gasped at sight of Var’s tom brow, but after 
that she made no sound. Quickly, yet carefully, 
she bathed the wound and swathed it over, while 

152 


THE HEARING 


the others hurried noiselessly about, anticipating 
her every demand. It was splendid, this swift 
wordless struggle against disaster. Never be¬ 
fore had I seen such skill, such method, in those 
who fought the wild. 

It was not until the last bandage had been 
placed and Jeanne, arising from her task, had 
seated herself beside the bunk, that the swampers 
sought an explanation of my arrival. 

‘‘Now, Bossu,” said they, as they gathered 
about me. 

And then, before I could reply, there came a 
knock at the door, and Voltaire Bon entered the 
room. 

A man of few unnecessary words, he merely 
waited expectantly until Ledet, as the eldest, 
spoke up for his companions. 

“It is Var,” he explained. “He has been in¬ 
jured, and we have brought Jeanne to care for 
him.” 

Going over to the bunk, the leader gazed down 
impassively at the still figure that it held. 

153 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“My nephew did this?’’ he inquired after a 
moment. 

“That is for Bossu, who brought him in, to 
say,” answered Ledet. “He was about to tell us 
when you came.” 

Voltaire Bon turned toward myself with a 
marked absence of his usual courtesy. 

“Well, Bossu?” he questioned bruskly. 

“It was thus, M’sieu,” said I and, as briefly as 
I could, I began my tale. The leader listened 
with the cold disfavor of one whose affairs have 
been meddled with from outside until, at the 
point where I hid myself at the clearing, he sud¬ 
denly held up his hand. 

“A moment, Bossu,” he interrupted. “We 
will consider this affair as we go along. This 
meeting now—did you not understand with the 
rest that it was to be attended only by the two?” 

It was hard, but I met his gaze. 

“Yes, M’sieu,” I answered. 

“And knowing this you watched unseen?” 

“Yes, M’sieu.” 


154 


THE HEARING 


“Your reasons?’’ 

“There were two, M’sieu. I mistrusted your 
nephew, and I had promised to be there.” 

“Your promise was to Marcel Var?” 

At this, despite his authority, I flared up in de¬ 
fense of my friend. 

“That is a useless question, as you must know, 
M’sieu,” I retorted. “Had you heard me out, 
you would never have asked it.” 

A hard fierce light came into the leader’s eyes, 
yet I knew that it was born not of what I had 
said, but of what I had done. 

“Bossu,” he began in a tone that was like the 
cut of a whip, “it is not pleasant for me thus 
publicly to rebuke a guest of this camp. Yet I 
am the leader and, when our laws are broken, 
even by an outsider, I can not let the matter pass 
unnoticed. Living as we do in this wilderness, it 
is not natural that we should know that repres¬ 
sion of feeling which is found outside. The pas¬ 
sions grow big in wide spaces, and when they 
break forth, to thwart them; is to pervert them. 

155 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Hold your enemies apart, and in time one will 
stab the other in the back. 

“Thus, when there are difficulties in this camp, 
I leave my men to settle them in their own way. 
If they wish seconds they are supplied. If not, 
it is 'hands off for all. You may think me hard, 
cruel, what you will, but this is my law. When 
two men decide to fight you can only stop them 
by locking them up, and I, who am a feller of 
trees, lack the time to play jailer.’^ 

It was a long speech for the leader, but it 
served its purpose well. 

Even while my brain condemned his inhuman¬ 
ity, my lips murmured an apology. 

“If I have broken your laws, I am sorry, 
M'sieu,’" they said. 

With one wave of his hand the leader swept 
the matter aside. 

**Bien” said he. “Proceed with your tale.’’ 

So I went on to the bitter end, while the men 
breathed hard in their anger, and the furrows of 
age and disillusionment bit deep into the leader’s 

156 


THE HEARING 


rugged face. Strong man though he was, I 
found it in my heart to pity him at that moment. 
Childless always, he had planned the future 
through his nephew, and now, word by word, I 
tumbled down his hopes, his ambitions, into the 
mire of disgrace. 

When I had finished there came a silence dur¬ 
ing which the leader tugged absently at his flow¬ 
ing beard. Evidently he was thinking hard, and 
through the squareness of his jaw and the fierce¬ 
ness of his eyes one could see that his thoughts 
were not entirely those of despair. It was a 
fighting face, and, as I gazed at it, I knew that, 
just though he was, Voltaire Bon would not eas¬ 
ily relinquish that which he had designed. 

‘‘Well, Bossu,” said he finally. “This is hard 
to believe. It is bad enough to be a coward, but 
to fight unfairly—’’ 

“There is also the race, M'sieu,” I reminded 
him. 

“True,’’ he replied. “But a race is a race. That 
was a trick. This, if it is true, is murder.” 


157 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘Then you doubt my word, M’sieu ?’^ I asked 
hotly. 

At this he made a gesture of annoyance. 

“Come, come, Bossu,’" he remonstrated, “you 
have no cause for offense. Occupying the posi¬ 
tion that I do, I must ever doubt until I know. 
In such matter as this I must act not as myself, 
but as a judge, and there are two sides to every 
story. We have heard yours and now, late 
though it is, we will hear my nephew’s. Ledet, 
you will bring him here at once.” 

Hurrying outside, Ledet returned almost im¬ 
mediately with Duron. The big man was fully 
dressed and it was evident that, since the first 
sounds of disturbance, he had hung about within 
easy reach. Also, through his flushed face and 
unsteady movements, it was still more evident 
that he had cheered his vigil with the spoils of his 
cache. Lurching inside, he cast one swift fur¬ 
tive glance toward the bunk, and then went over 
to his uncle. 

“You sent for me, M’sieu?” he asked with the 

158 


THE HEARING 


sullenness that ever characterized his moments 
of fear. 

The leader looked at him and then glanced 
quickly away, as though unwilling to see that 
which he read in the other’s face. 

‘'Blaise Duron,” said he in the tone of one ad¬ 
dressing an utter stranger, “you have been called 
here to answer certain charges that have been 
brought before me by Jean Le Bossu. He claims 
that he witnessed your encounter with Marcel 
Var, that, having given him the choice of weap¬ 
ons, you refused to fight. Further he declares 
that, having been shamed into an encounter with 
axes, you felled your opponent by hurling your 
ax at him from a distance, when it was under¬ 
stood that you were to engage hand to hand. Is 
this true?” 

Duron did not hesitate in his reply. Evidently 
he had employed his time of waiting in preparing 
a defense built upon his knowledge of Var’s re¬ 
turn. 

*Tt is a lie,” he snarled, “a lie of that little 


159 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


crooked devil who has ever hated me since once 
I tried to play a joke upon him. Did he not call 
against me in the race? And well he might 
since, through the meddling of this very Var, 
he was saved from the consequences of my fun.” 

He broke off to tell of his ruined joke, at the 
same time drawing his huge figure to its greatest 
height. 

‘Took at me, my friends,” he continued, beat¬ 
ing a fist against his enormous chest. “Consider 
my size and strength, and then ask yourselves if 
I need resort to any tricks in such an encounter. 
We fought with axes, it is true, but my blow was 
fair. If Var had no chance, it was his own 
choice, and I even warned him beforehand. ‘You 
are mad,’ I told him. ‘In one stroke I will break 
down your defense.’ ” 

It all sounded very plausible, coming as it did 
from the great hulking giant, and the men 
glanced at one another in doubt. Had I not seen, 
had I not known him for the coward that he was, 
I myself might have been deceived. As for the 
i6o 


THE HEARING 


leader, he also had seen in that one brief look of 
his, and the struggle raised within him by the 
false ring of truth in his nephew’s reply, must 
have been terrible indeed. Yet, to look at him, 
one would have thought him only the impartial 
judge. 

“So, Blaise Duron,” said he. “That is all very 
well. It is easy enough to say, Tt is a lie.’ The 
question is, can you prove it?” 

It was the one chance for temporary escape 
and, as he uttered it, the leader’s voice was harsh 
with self-contempt. He was a fair man, was 
Voltaire Bon, and this staying of justice was 
made all the harder in that it was done to serve 
his own ends. 

Again Duron did not hesitate. Not for noth¬ 
ing had he attended similar hearings in former 
times. “As the accuser, Bossu is the one to prove, 
not myself,” he answered. 

The leader turned toward me, and this time it 
was he who experienced a difficulty in meeting 
eye with eye. 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘This story of the joke at Lonson's?'’ he ques¬ 
tioned. ‘Tt is true?’' 

‘Tt is, M’sieu,” I replied. 

“And Var alone called out to you in warning?” 

“He was the only one, M’sieu.” 

“It is so that you threatened my nephew after¬ 
ward ?” 

“His words were not nice, M’sieu. I merely 
told him that, for all his size, I was well able to 
look out for myself.” 

The leader waited a moment. 

“This Var?” he went on. “You had seen him 
before ?” 

“Once before, M’sieu.” 

“That was on the bayou ?” 

“On the bayou, M’sieu.” 

“And this time also he did you a service?” 

Again my temper rose, despite my admiration. 
He was clever, this Voltaire Bon. His trap of 
words brought back a memory of the smooth 
clinging roots of the lilies. 

“M’sieu,” said I, “why waste breath on a mat- 
162 


THE HEARING 


ter that is of common knowledge? You know, 
as well as the rest, that, upon the occasion of our 
first meeting, Marcel Var pulled me out of the 
bayou/’ 

The leader’s nod was like a stroke, pinning 
something down. 

‘"Bien” said he. And he added, after another 
wait: “Then what else have you to say, Bossu?” 

“M’sieu,” I answered him, “out there in the 
swamp there were but the three of us, and Var 
is beyond speech—perhaps for all time. Thus 
there remain only we two, and you have heard 
our different stories. One is true, and one is 
false. It is for you to choose between them.” 

It was a reply that left small chance for eva¬ 
sion, and Voltaire Bon was one who had ever de¬ 
livered his decisions with the force and abrupt¬ 
ness of a gunshot. Now, for the first time since 
I had known him, he betrayed indecision. Slow¬ 
ly, almost shamefully, his eyes left mine and 
sought the floor. His hand ceased its absent 
tugging, and began to comb with nervous fingers 
163 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


amid the tangle of his beard. Then he spoke, his 
voice charged with an elusive hesitancy which, 
nevertheless, seemed to shout aloud this first 
weakening of his iron resolve. 

‘What you say is true, Bossu,” he began, “but 
you have ignored two very important points. In 
the first place you have, upon your own showing, 
proved yourself a prejudiced witness. In the sec¬ 
ond it is not yet certain that Var will remain 
speechless for all time. Perhaps he will recover, 
he will remember, and in that event his story will 
be the deciding one. With this possibility in 
view, I can not choose fairly between you now. 
Therefore I deem it best to await the turn of 
events.” 

It was just and fair perhaps, but it was not 
the method of Voltaire Bon. As he turned away 
in token that, for the present at least, the hearing 
was closed, the swampers exchanged puzzled 
glances. 

“Can this be our master?” their looks seemed 
to ask. 

164 


THE HEARING 


As for myself, despite all that had occurred, 
my feeling for the leader was still one of pity 
rather than of anger. He was an honest man, 
and I did not doubt that in time to come he 
would obey the commands of his conscience. 
If for the moment he recoiled from driving his 
nephew in disgrace from the camp, who could 
blame him? A little patience, and the truth 
would prevail. 

At the door Voltaire Bon paused for one final 
backward glance. It was characteristic of him, 
that glance. His had been the last word. No 
slightest murmur of surprise or criticism had 
marked the utterance of his unusual decision. Yet 
he had sensed the unspoken reproof. Now, be¬ 
fore stepping out into the night, he answered it 
with the unspoken challenge of his gaze. 

‘‘Come,” his eyes commanded. “If you have 
anything to say to me, say it now before my face. 
Do not, like a pack of curs, go snapping at my 
heels after my back is turned.” 

A long silent moment passed before, with a 

165 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


movement of grim disdain, the leader turned his 
head. He had won through the sheer power of 
his personality. He had even reversed his form¬ 
er triumphs of right over wrong. 

And then, as the latch clicked beneath his 
hand, a voice broke the stillness of the room. It 
was a low scornful voice, yet it smote upon the 
tension like the crash of an exploding shell. 

‘‘Ah, you coward/’ it said. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Jeanne's defiance 

I T WAS Jeanne who spoke, and her words were 
received with the slow half-doubtful surprise 
of those who witness the breaking of a long 
established precedent. At Camp Bon, as through¬ 
out the swamp, the women were not allowed to 
comment upon the doings of the men. Their 
duties comprised those of the household, and be¬ 
yond these they were not expected to go. 

Yet, when once more the leader faced about, 
his expression was only one of fatherly reproof. 
Perhaps, still glowing from his recent triumph, 
he felt that he might deal lightly with the fault. 
Perhaps he realized that he had to do with no 
ordinary girl. 

‘‘Come, Jeanne," said he firmly yet kindly. 
167 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘For once you must control your temper. It is 
not nice, and it is not proper to call names. Also 
my nephew is no coward until he is proved abso¬ 
lutely to be one. As I have said—” 

In one swift movement Jeanne left the bunk 
and advanced to the center of the room. Her 
face was very white and strained, but she held 
herself proudly erect, and her eyes blazed fear¬ 
lessly beneath their level brows. 

“Pardon, M’sieu,’’ she interrupted evenly. “I 
did not call your nephew a coward. It was to 
you that I spoke.” 

Had she struck him full in the face, Voltaire 
Bon could not have been more astounded. His 
eyes stared. His mouth gaped. He was saved 
from being ridiculous only by the absolute sincer¬ 
ity of his amazement. A murmur of awe rip¬ 
pled among the swampers, like the whisper of 
wind in dry grass. Fagot, round-eyed with dis¬ 
may, limped forward in trembling protest. 

Then the leader recovered from his stupor, and 
his whole figure seemed to swell with the wrath 

i68 


JEANNE’S DEFIANCE 


of his offended dignity. Slowly, majestically he 
advanced on the girl, and as he came. Fagot crept 
back into his place again. It was not, as I knew, 
that the old man was afraid. It was simply that 
it was beyond his power to deal with so incredible 
an affair. 

The leader halted within arm’s length of 
Jeanne, and fixed her with his gaze. He had 
himself well in hand by now, and when he spoke 
it was in a tone of ironic courtesy. 

“So I am a coward, am I, Mademoiselle ?” he 
began. “You have indeed made a discovery, 
and one that, were you a man, would cost you 
dear. As it is you will first explain, and then 
apologize. Woman though you are, you will an¬ 
swer to me for what you have said before I go.” 

Jeanne faced him defiantly, yet in her attitude 
there was also something of distress. She was 
like one who, having witnessed the destruction of 
an ideal, is divided between anger and regret. 

“Very well, M’sieu,” she replied, still in the 
same even voice. “I will explain, but after I am 
169 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


through I do not think that you will require an 
apology of me. Always I have admired you as 
the greatest leader that I have ever known. It 
began when, as a child, I was wrongfully accused 
of a fault. You upheld me, and since that day 
you have been for me all that is just and true. 
And now, not five minutes ago— 

She paused, and her tone changed to one of 
sorrowful reproof. 

“Ah, M^sieu, why did you do it?” she cried. 
“Why did you not keep your justice, your fair¬ 
ness untarnished to the end? Was your nephew 
worth it ? Could any man’s good name atone for 
this blot upon such a record as yours? Has your 
eye, your judgment failed you, that you must 
wait for the story of one who, in your heart, you 
hope will never speak; who, even if he lives, is 
sure to refuse redress at your hands? Come, 
M’sieu. Be the man that you have always been. 
Consider again the two who are before you. If 
you can not find the liar in a single glance, then 
indeed must you be blind.” 

170 


JEANNE’S DEFIANCE 

That the leader was touched could not be 
doubted. He had received a great, a noble trib¬ 
ute and, had he been wholly worthy of it, he 
would have repaired his error then and there. 
But the strength of Voltaire Bon was not the 
strength of wisdom alone. It was also the 
strength of force, and he now made the mistake 
of employing it where force was of no avail. 

^‘Enough, Mademoiselle,” he thundered. ‘*Hav- 
ing begun this affair, it is not necessary that you 
should end it. One would think that through 
modesty, if through nothing else—” 

At the word the girl’s temper blazed into a 
white heat. 

“Modesty, M’sieu?” she echoed furiously. “Is 
it modesty to desert, when helpless, the one that 
you love? Ah, yes,” she went on, unmindful now 
of the others in her anger, “I love Marcel Var as 
any other girl of pride, of mettle, would love him. 
Who else has placed his affections above your 
law? He has been the one man among all your 
followers. And yet, M’sieu, I have sought to do 
171 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


that which you think my duty. Despite his 
sneers, his neglect, I have tried to love your 
nephew. Even after the race, had he played the 
man, I might have followed your desires. But 
one can not love, one can not hold to, a cheat, a 
coward and a murderer. One can only bring him 
to that justice which, in yourself, seems lacking 
for the first time.’^ 

Her voice broke, and her arm went out to point 
the guilty face of Duron. 

“Look, M’sieu,” she cried beseechingly. “If 
you are an honest man, look into your nephew’s 
eyes, and tell me what you read there.” 

She was magnificent in the passion of her ap¬ 
peal, but Voltaire Bon, hopelessly committed to 
his policy of evasion, was bereft of a suitable 
reply. Enraged, humiliated, he lost for the 
moment the last vestige of his self-control. No 
longer was he the grave, yet forceful, adjuster of 
human affairs. He shouted, bullied. He became 
merely a savage old man who fought for an author¬ 
ity of which he knew himself to be unworthy. 

172 


JEANNE’S DEFIANCE 


“Be silent,” he bellowed hoarsely. “Be silent 
before I forget that you are a woman. Am I 
the chit and you the leader, that I must listen 
longer to your insolence? If, through your 
youth, your sex, I have spoiled you, must I now 
suffer this intrusion into my affairs? No, Made¬ 
moiselle. You are in need of discipline and, like 
the rest, you shall receive it at my hands. You 
say that you love Var, that you will not hold to a 
cheat, a coward and a murderer! Bien! Now 
listen to what I have to say. First I shall prove 
the innocence of my nephew, and then you will 
marry him. Your promise, if not given, has been 
understood, and I shall hold you to it. And so, 
Mademoiselle, I bid you good night, and leave 
you to cool your temper till your wedding day.” 

He ceased, choking with rage, nor could he 
have realized fully what he had said. Otherwise 
he must have recognized the futility of issuing a 
command which, later on, he would be unable to 
enforce. 

But as his fury had waxed, so had Jeanne’s 

173 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


temper waned. As I have said, her bursts of pas¬ 
sion were ever short-lived, and now, through pity 
of her opponent, her anger had burned itself 
away. For the moment she was all her father’s 
child, gentle, contrite, eager to make amends. 

“Wait, M’sieu,” she begged. “We can not 
part like this, you and I. If in what has passed I 
have forgotten the respect due your age and in¬ 
fluence, I most humbly crave your pardon. For 
the rest, you will not be troubled long with either 
my father or myself. We shall only await the 
outcome of Marcel Var’s injury before leaving 
the camp.” 

It was a peaceful ending to a stormy scene, 
and, furthermore, it opened up for the leader the 
one avenue of dignified escape. But Voltaire 
Bon, despite his long acquaintance with Jeanne, 
was ignorant of this side of the girl’s nature. 
Accustomed always to final if unwilling obedi¬ 
ence, he mistook this triumph of a generous heart 
for the submission of defeat. 

“Enough, Mademoiselle,” he ordered shortly. 


174 


JEANNE’S DEFIANCE 

“I do not now desire your apologies, but your 
obedience. As I have said so shall you do, and 
this within the month. Then perhaps you will 
appreciate that here, in my own camp, I am in 
command.” 

As he finished the leader’s voice sank to its 
usual level of cold severity. He imagined not on¬ 
ly that he had conquered, but that his victory was 
a double one. Through Jeanne herself he would 
hush all accusations against his nephew. Once 
the girl was safely married, the duel would be 
forgotten, and a further investigation rendered 
unnecessary. 

It was a shrewd scheme, yet one palpable even 
to the fuddled brain of Blaise Duron. Thus far 
the big man had looked on in sodden silence, con¬ 
tent to hide behind the defense of his uncle’s 
authority. Now, however, the affair had reached 
a stage peculiar to his talents. A master bully 
himself, he could not forego a word in the final 
subjection of Jeanne. Thus, before the girl could 
reply, he lurched awkwardly before her. 

175 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


^‘Come, Jeanne/' he cried thickly. ‘‘Let us do 
as the leader commands. If I, who am the in¬ 
jured one, am willing, should you not be doubly 
so?" 

He paused and, mistaking the girl's speech¬ 
less fury for silent acceptance, reached out for her 
with one of his powerful arms. 

“Come, Jeanne," he repeated. “Already we 
have waited too long." 

What followed occurred with a swiftness im¬ 
possible of description. At Duron's first move I 
had started forward, but I was not a moment too 
soon. There came a gasp, a flash of steel, a bel¬ 
low of startled fear, as the bully hurled himself 
violently backward. Then I was clinging like 
death to Jeanne’s upraised wrist, while Duron, 
flattened out against the wall, probed with un¬ 
certain fingers at his breast, as though to make 
sure that he was indeed unhurt. 

Quickly, shudderingly, Jeanne dropped her 
arm. Then, as I loosed my hold, she swung about 
once more to face the leader. She still grasped 
176 


JEANNE’S DEFIANCE 


her great knife, and its heavy blade answered the 
flash of her eyes as she held it forth in warning. 

“You see, M’sieu,” she cautioned. “Take 
heed, then, and keep off your nephew. You have 
laughed at me for going about armed beneath 
your protection. Can you laugh again, M’sieu ?” 

But Voltaire Bon could not laugh. He could 
not even reply. He saw and understood, and de¬ 
parted without a word. Throughout his leader¬ 
ship he had conquered with justice. Now, when 
for the first time he fought without his life-long 
ally, he was beaten by a girl. 

So ended that hearing at Camp Bon, its tur¬ 
moil hushed into silence by a glint of cold steel. 

The swampers, following their leader, slipped 
out in speechless awe. Duron, jerking himself 
together, crept furtively away. Fagot, a stunned 
huddle of bewilderment, muttered vaguely as he 
sought to grasp the significance of all that had 
occurred. 

*'Bon Dieu, Bon Dieu/* he repeated again and 
again. 


177 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


But all these things passed unnoticed by 
Jeanne. Kneeling again beside the bunk, she 
sobbed her heart out into the coarse blankets, un¬ 
conscious even of the touch of my hand upon her 
head. 

I was glad that the others were not there to 
see. Perhaps they would not have understood 
that, after all, she was only a girl. 


1 


CHAPTER XX 


WAITING 


LL that night Jeanne watched beside the 



bunk while I, at her command, sought 
such rest as I could in preparation for the mor¬ 
row. When, after a brief nap, I awoke at sun¬ 
rise, I found Var’s condition unchanged. He 
still lay white and senseless as he might continue 
to do for days. I had seen such cases before, and 
I knew that we could only wait. Not until he 
regained consciousness, could we begin tO' hope. 

“You see,” said Jeanne. “All night there has 
not been so much as the flutter of an eyelid. I 
believe that I could stand it better if he were 
really dead.” 

She was fagged, and worn, and utterly dis¬ 
heartened. To have seen her, one would never 


179 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


have imagined that, but a few hours before, she 
had defied Voltaire Bon himself. As in leaving 
she turned for a last glance toward the bunk, a 
faint wistful smile touched for an instant the 
drooping corners of her mouth. ‘‘Ah, Marcel, 
Marcel,” it seemed to say, “am I to lose you 
now, after all that I have been through for your 
sake?” 

“Have courage,” I cheered her. “These hurts 
take time. And there is both youth and strength 
in MarceFs favor. We must fight to the end.” 

“Fight, Bossu!” she exclaimed. “If only I 
could. If only there was something to fight. But 
this waiting, with idle hands—” 

She broke off, and added as she turned away: 
“Forgive me, Bossu. I will be patient, never 
fear. And remember that you are tO' call me if 
there is even the slightest change.” 

When she had gone I began my vigil, which 
was broken every now and then by the dropping 
in of Var’s companions. It was Sunday, the day 
of homekeeping, of the accomplishment of in- 
180 


WAITING 


numerable unfinished tasks about the household. 
Yet, save for these brief visits of inquiry, Ledet 
and the others did not return to their cabin. 
They would get along outside, they said, until 
Var was either dead or better. Their noise might 
disturb the sick man, and, besides, it would not be 
pleasant for Jeanne to have them blundering about. 

When they spoke of Jeanne it was in a voice 
of awed admiration, touched, so I thought, with 
a hint of shame. And yet I do not believe that 
they realized until that morning that they had 
looked silently on while the girl was bullied be¬ 
yond human endurance. The affair had been 
brief, and one does not easily break a long estab¬ 
lished discipline. Now that they knew they were 
giving up their cabin to make amends. 

As the day wore on the attitude of the camp 
declared itself. Voltaire Bon kept indoors, deny¬ 
ing himself to every one. He might be planning 
some supreme act of authority. He might be hid¬ 
ing his defeat from his little world. None could 
tell. 


i8i 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Blaise Duron, upon the other hand, was about 
everywhere. Having sought solace throughout 
the night from the neck of a bottle, he had be¬ 
come the most dangerous of human creatures— 
a drunken coward. Heavily armed, obscenely 
profane, he staggered from one end of the camp 
to the other, challenging each one he met to 
deny his innocence. Since Var was helpless, let 
some one else take up his quarrel. That was what 
he, Blaise Duron, wished above all things. Then 
perhaps folk would know that he was the man he 
claimed to be. 

As for Jeanne, he swore that, though she 
bristled with knives like a porcupine, he would 
marry her within the month. She had spirit, had 
Jeanne, and he liked spirit. He had spirit him¬ 
self, as the girl would learn the first time she 
came within reach of him. So Duron went on 
throughout the day. Men pitied him, but avoided 
him. For once he was in a condition to make good 
his bluster, and none felt willing to become the 
victim of his maudlin courage. 

182 


WAITING 


Among the rest at Camp Bon opinion was di¬ 
vided, the women declaring for Jeanne, the men, 
for the most part, upholding the leader. It was 
the eternal struggle of sex against sex intensified 
by the leisure of the Sabbath. A spirit of unrest 
pervaded the camp, finding expression in endless 
bitter argument. 

Thus the hours passed until, at dusk, Jeanne 
returned to relieve me. The girl seemed fresher 
and brighter, but her eyes were hard. Thus far 
she had made no mention of her defiance of the 
leader, and now I knew that she would remain 
silent. She had had her say, and she was fin¬ 
ished. Of sympathy she was not in need. 

Fagot also was, for the first time, uncommu¬ 
nicative. He had tried once or twice to speak to 
me, but had given up in despair. He was still 
stunned. 

As for myself, I found little sleep that second 
night. By now I had become genuinely attached 
to Fagot and Jeanne, and I could not but perceive 
the difficulty, the impossibility of their situation. 

183 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


For the moment the one was helpless, the other 
defiant, and all the while the tension of the camp 
was increasing. Soon there would come a snap, 
and then^—. But I could only hope that the snap 
would be avoided by departure. Had it not been 
for Var, I would have insisted that the two go 
out at once, while I remained behind to arrange 
for their effects. 

Next morning, when I arose for my watch, I 
again found a weary haggard Jeanne. Var con¬ 
tinued the same, and the girl, if possible, was 
even more hopeless than before. Yet she retired 
to her rest obediently enough. It promised to be 
a long siege and, through former experience, she 
was forced to recognize the necessity of saving 
herself. 

Therefore I was much surprised when, that 
afternoon, Jeanne returned. She was dressed in 
rough clothes, and, in addition to her heavy 
knife, she wore her leather gauntlets. 

‘T am off to the swamp, Bossu,"’ she an¬ 
nounced dully. ‘T can not sleep, and were I to 
184 


WAITING 


take your place now I would go mad. Somehow 
at night it is not so terrible. Then it is more like 
a real death than a living one.” 

‘‘You will take my pirogue?” I suggested. 

She shook her head, holding out her gaunt- 
leted hands. 

“I am going to work, Bossu,” she returned. 
“This is Monday, and the moss will not come to 
us. Also it will cost us to move. We can sell 
what we leave behind.” 

It was the old unanswerable argument of ne¬ 
cessity. I could only warn where I wished to 
forbid. 

said I. “But you will stay clear of the 
men? You will watch out for—” 

Jeanne interrupted hastily as though to avoid 
the name. 

“Ah, yes, of course, Bossu,” she assured me. 
“I only want to be let alone for the little time 
that I am here.” 

I watched her go with a vague sense of fore¬ 
boding. Despite her mettle, she was only a young 

185 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


headstrong girl, and somewhere in that dark 
tangle of cypress lurked Blaise Duron. Insen¬ 
sible at sunrise, he had not gone with the others. 
At noon, however, he had awakened and, having 
fortified himself with liquor, had set out to join 
his companions. I had watched him from the 
window as, splashing and rocking, he had made 
his way toward the swamp. 

That afternoon was one of the longest that I 
have ever known. It was terribly hot and still, 
and the minutes dragged interminably. As I sat 
there, enveloped by the depression of Var’s liv¬ 
ing death, it was not long before I built up my 
vague foreboding into a certain and frightful 
catastrophe. Now, when it was too late, I saw 
that I had been mad to let Jeanne go. I should 
have held her back, by force if necessary. Of 
course she would meet Duron. It was one of 
those things arranged by fate from the beginning 
of time. Though they had all the world to move 
about in, the two must inevitably collide. And 
Duron was still drunk, and Jeanne had her great 
i86 


WAITING 


knife. I could picture them as they came to¬ 
gether. Duron, the maudlin braggart, would not 
hesitate to make good his boast. The girl’s very 
weakness would embolden him. 

And there was Jeanne with her pride and tem¬ 
per. She was not one to threaten idly. Also she 
was quick and sure. Let the big man reach out 
for her a second time with his mighty arm—. 

Thus I thought until I had all but worked my¬ 
self into a frenzy. Then, when it lacked but a 
little to sunset, Jeanne came hurrying in as an 
answer to my fears. 

“Out with you, Bossu,” she cried cheerily. 
“You look as though you had seen a ghost. Take 
your pirogue while the light lasts, and cross to 
the swamp. It is what you need. Go, Bossu. Go 
at once. I am not tired, and I will stand my 
watch just as I am.” 

“Then you have not met Duron?” I ques¬ 
tioned, still held by my thoughts. 

“Met him?” she echoed. “Why, no, Bossu. 
Had I done so, I would have returned at once. 

187 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


But go, as I have said. I tell you that the grip 
of the paddle, the slide of the water, will do you 
more good than all the sleep in the world. 

That she spoke truly was evidenced by herself. 

It was wonderful the change that had been 
wrought in her by that brief time of toil. There 
was hope in her eyes, a flush on her cheek. She 
was the Jeanne of a week before. 

I could only stare my relief and gratitude. 
Somehow I felt as though a crisis had been 
passed. I had looked forward to this Monday as 
the crucial day, and now I felt that matters 
would begin to mend. Voltaire Bon had not 
struck. Blaise Duron must, of a necessity, cease 
his drinking. As in the case of Jeanne, all would 
become normal once more through the sanity of 
accustomed labor. 


CHAPTER XXI 

IN THE MOONLIGHT 

HAT night I was in high spirits. At supper, 



returning from an hour of idle paddling, I 


talked in so cheerful a strain that even Fagot be¬ 
gan to take heart. Yes, it would be all right, he de¬ 
clared. One could never be sure in matters of 
love. Though the old planned, the young must 
have their way. Surely the leader would see this. 
He was a just man. Also he had once been 
young himself. 

Of course it would not do to stay on at Camp 
Bon. That would be unpleasant for every one. 
Come what might he. Fagot, would leave with 
Jeanne. But it must be in friendship. That 
much, at least, was due the kindness of Voltaire 
Bon. 


189 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Supper over, we sat out and smoked before 
the cabin of the unmarried men. True, it was my 
time for sleep, but I had determined that, despite 
her remonstrances, I would relieve Jeanne for the 
first half of the night. 

Never will I forget the peace, the beauty of 
that hour. A welcome breeze had sprung up at 
dusk, and above the dark ramparts of the swamp 
rose a round white moon. Already her beams 
were wiping away the shadows from the water, 
leaving only the ripples with their etching of sil¬ 
ver and black. Fagot, timidly confident, rumbled 
vague plans through the smoke of his cigarette. 
He would return to the woods. Perhaps, even, 
he could get back his old home. At all events 
there would be no lack of moss for his trade. 

Then came Ledet and the others, inquiring of 
Var, complaining of the hardships of the day.. 
The swamp had been terrible, they said, and the 
leader had driven them unmercifully. To their 
heat and fatigue had been added the unjust bur¬ 
den of his resentment. Of Duron they knew lit- 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


tie. He had arrived at midday, too drunk to 
work, and had been ordered off by his uncle. 
Noue knew where he had gone, nor had he come 
out with the rest. It would be a good thing if he 
and his bottle were to remain inside forever. 

Thus they rambled on to fall presently silent, 
hushed by the beauty of the night. 

It was Trappey who finally broke the spell by 
pointing out toward the water. 

“See,” said he. “Duron will at least spend the 
night inside. The current has robbed him.” 

I looked and there, sure enough, was the va¬ 
grant pirogue, drifting in across the pale reach of 
moonlit water. 

Ledet growled impatiently. 

“The drunken dog. It would serve him right 
were he to lose her. Nevertheless,” he added 
aloud, “since you have discovered her, Trappey, 
you may bring her in. Then we will go to bed.” 

But Trappey, being already half asleep, was in 
no mood for unnecessary effort. 

“There is no need,” he answered. “With this 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


breeze and the current, she can not miss us. When 
she lands I will moor her.” 

So Trappey waited while the pirogue floated 
ever nearer, the one dark blot upon that rippling 
flood of silver. Then, when she had all but 
reached the shore, he departed grumbling toward 
the landings. I watched him idly as, splashing 
out, he caught the runaway craft; nor did I 
guess at all what his action involved. Indeed, 
even after he had hailed his companions, I did 
not suspect. 

“Hola, up there,” he called. '‘Duron is here 
also, dead drunk in the bottom. Lend a hand 
some of you that we may carry him home.” 

We rose, all of us, and Ledet, since it was 
dark in the shadows, reached down a lantern. 
Fagot, still concerned with his plans, turned mut¬ 
tering away toward his cabin. With a word of 
good night the swampers set off, their light a 
mere spark in the great white wash of radiance. 
Jeanne stirred inside and I, suddenly mindful of 
my neglect, hastened to relieve her. 


192 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


And then, before I could reach the door, there 
came from the direction of the landing the sound 
of one in mortal dread. It was not loud, it was 
scarce a cry, yet it broke upon the still glory of 
that night as with the shout of many voices. 

I think that I must have known upon the in¬ 
stant. At all events, before the sound had ceased 
to tremble upon the air, I was running blindly 
after the swampers. I caught them before they 
arrived. Indeed, it was with the lantern snatched 
from Ledet’s hand that I made certain that which 
Trappey had only begun to suspect. 

Blaise Duron lay asprawl in the bottom of his 
pirogue, a limp huddled mass, all dripping with 
blood and water. He had fallen upon his face^— 
with his arms reached stiffly outward—and just 
below the broad spread of his shoulders, there 
gaped a single wound. It was a huge, a terrible 
wound—as from the thrust of some peculiarly 
heavy blade—and it went almost through. No 
ordinary knife could have made it. Even by the 
dim light of the lantern that much was plain. 

193 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


They turned him over, not without difficulty, 
for one hand had fastened itself to the pirogue’s 
side. The other, as it flopped woodenly into 
view, clutched a dark, crumpled object within its 
final grasp. 

There was no need to loose the gripping fin¬ 
gers. The object was only too well known. It 
was one of the leather gauntlets that Jeanne al¬ 
ways wore at her work in the swamp. 

This much I saw before, sick with horror, I 
turned away. I did not wait for the conjectures 
of the men. I could neither have plead nor de¬ 
fended, even had it been of any use. I was over¬ 
whelmed by the monstrous, savage cruelty of 
that which must inevitably come. And yet, with¬ 
in the chaos of my mind, there was not the slight¬ 
est suspicion against Jeanne’s innocence. Had 
I not seen her upon her return? Had she not 
told me that she had not met Duron in the 
swamp ? 

Half stupefied, I stumbled up from the land¬ 
ings. For the moment I was beside myself. I 
194 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


had an impulse to seize Jeanne, to spring into my 
pirogue and to paddle madly away. I wished to 
escape from Camp Bon, from life itself. 

Then a hand fell upon my shoulder, and a 
voice spoke into my ear, a strong hushed voice 
that was charged with the very essence of com¬ 
mand. 

“Quick, Bossu, if you are with me,” it said. 
“There is not a moment to lose.” 

It was Fagot, but such a Fagot as I had never 
known. Cool, resolute, masterful, he quelled the 
panic of my thoughts with the power of his new¬ 
found personality. Seizing my arm he set off 
at a fast limping trot, while I followed him with 
the passive obedience of a child. I felt no sur¬ 
prise. I accepted without marveling. It seemed 
of a piece with the grotesque madness of that 
dreadful moment. 

At the cabin Fagot loosed his hold of me, and 
hurried within. Jeanne sat in her usual place 
beside the bunk, but he called her to him with a 
sharp command. 


195 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘Quick! Jeanne,” he ordered. “You must 
come home with me at once. There is not a mo¬ 
ment to lose.” 

“But what of Marcel?” began the girl. 

“He must wait,” Fagot answered shortly. “We 
have no place now for a sick man. When we 
are safe I will explain.” 

Even while speaking he bundled Jeanne out¬ 
side, and strode away with her toward his cabin. 
Despite his limp he strode, and his carriage was 
that of a good twenty years before. The old 
man was reborn. He had become heroic in his 
supreme hour of need. 


CHAPTER XXII 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 

O NCE inside his own home, Fagot wasted 
no time. First he locked and barred the 
door. Next, seizing Jeanne by the shoulders, he 
thrust her out at arm’s length where, while ques¬ 
tioning her, he could look into her eyes. When 
he spoke it was with a crispness strangely ill 
suited to his loudness of voice. 

“Quick, Jeanne,” he repeated. “I must know 
the truth, Duron has just drifted in dead from 
the swamp. He came in the bottom of his 
pirogue, and he has been stabbed in the back. 
You killed him?” 

The girl went ghastly white, but her eyes 
held true. Also she made no show of useless in¬ 
dignation. 


197 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘*No, I did not kill him/' she answered simply, 
yet convincingly. 

At once Fagot released her. He knew his 
daughter, and he was satisfied. 

‘‘So," said he. “That is what I thought, al¬ 
though it might be better if you had killed him. 
Then you would have something to pay for. As 
it is, you will pay for nothing." 

“You mean that I—I will be suspected?" falt¬ 
ered Jeanne. 

Fagot uttered what was perhaps a short laugh. 
It sounded more like a cry of pain. 

“Suspected?" he echoed bitterly. “No, Jeanne, 
it is worse than that. Already you are damned 
as surely as though you had been tried and found 
guilty by all the judges in the world. You went 
to the swamp this afternoon, and your glove was 
found clasped in Duron's hand." 

“I lost it," put in the girl. “I hung it for a 
moment upon the edge of the boat while I freed 
my pole, and the current carried it away. As 
for my knife—" She broke off and. drawing 
198 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 


the weapon added: “As you can see, it is quite 
clean. Also it has never for a moment been out 
of my sight/' 

Fagot waved the interruption impatiently 
aside. 

“I know, I know,” said he. “Nevertheless this 
will not serve you. They would only laugh at 
your story. No, no, Jeanne, you are trapped. It 
all fits in too well together. First you threatened, 
then you went armed to the swamp. Now this 
dead drunkard drifts in with a gash in his back 
beyond the power of any knife among us, save 
only your own. You should see that gash, 
Jeanne. They will not need the glove.” 

Jeanne nodded with the calm weariness of des¬ 
pair. She had had a long hard fight, and now, 
through a series of well-nigh impossible circum¬ 
stances, Fate had tricked her into defeat. She 
asked no questions. It was all too terribly 
plain. 

^'Bien,” said she quietly. “Then I can only tell 
them that I am innocent, as did Jean Pierre.” 


199 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


At the name Fagot’s face became twisted with 
a savageness of which I would have deemed him 
incapable. 

*‘Ah, no, Jeanne,” he snarled. “You will not 
tell them that; nor will you tell them anything. 
This time I, the father, will do the talking. You 
remember what I said at the death of my son, 
how I found that I had neglected my duty? I 
little thought that the necessity would be mine 
once more. Now that it has come, I know what 
to do. As for yourself, you have only to remain 
silent and obey.” 

Out of Jeanne’s dull apathy his words aroused 
a faint flicker of protest. It was a pitiful effort, 
half-hearted and short-lived. Evidently, having 
in some past hour known the Fagot who was 
now before her, the girl recognized the futility 
of argument. 

“And what of Marcel?” she began. “Who will 
look after—” 

Fagot stopped her with a shout. 

“Marcel must take his chance,” he roared. 


200 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 


‘‘Anyhow he can mean nothing to you now. And 
if he recovers, you will mean worse than nothing 
to him. He will see only the blood upon your 
hands. Come, let us prepare for all that is left to 
us. Quick now with the possibilities of the sup¬ 
plies.” 

It was brutally cruel, but it had its effect. 
Jeanne could not help but understand. Without 
a word she turned to the cupboard where the 
food was stored. 

“With care there should be enough for one 
week,” she announced after a brief examination. 
Her voice was dull, yet free from bitterness. 
With the swift fatalism of our race, she was al¬ 
ready resigned. 

Fagot uttered a growl of relief. 

“That will more than suffice,” he replied. 
“And now for water. There is only the kettle 
outside. It is not large, but it is all that we have. 
Come, Bossu.” 

All that I have described occurred with the 
swiftness of desperation. Indeed, as I followed 


201 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Fagot through the door and around the cabin, 
I had scarce regained my composure. Almost 
from the first I had sensed his determination, 
yet, despite its terrible, futile madness, there had 
been no chance to intervene. Now as, stooping, 
he began to tug the kettle from its support of 
three half bricks, I began my protest. 

‘‘Hold, Fagot,” said I. “What are you pre¬ 
paring to do?” 

Still employed with his tugging, he glanced 
up at me with a look of calm but absolute pur¬ 
pose. He was like a man going about some neces¬ 
sary piece of work, a distasteful piece, perhaps, 
but one not without a certain amount of interest. 

“I am going to hold them off, Bossu. There is 
nothing else to do. In front lie clear water and a 
full moon. Behind is impenetrable swamp. There 
is no chance for escape.” 

“But, Fagot,” I cried, “have you considered 
the uselessness, the cruelty of what you propose ? 
You can not hold them off for long. After you 
are dead, to whom will Jeanne turn?” 


202 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 


At this he sprang upright, his face convulsed 
with an expression half of fury, half of despair. 
I shrank from him involuntarily, but he came at 
me and gripped me by the shoulders as, a while 
before, he had seized Jeanne. Then, thrusting 
his face close to my own, he spoke, as though his 
words were blows which he wished to deliver at 
short range. 

“Drop that, Bossu,'' he ordered fiercely. “It 
is the one thing that I am trying to forget. Also 
do not begin about Jeanne’s vindication by the 
law. They fooled me that way with my son, but 
they will not fool me again. For the rest, I am 
in command here, and my mind is made up. As 
much as I love you I will endure no second word 
of argument. If the affair is so desperate, steer 
clear of it. Otherwise keep your thoughts to 
yourself and obey. Come now, decide. Any nx)- 
ment they may be here.” 

I did not reply in words. I had been beaten 
in that line of attack, and I knew that a second 
attempt would be as ineffectual as it would prove 
203 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


disastrous. As Fagot stooped again for the ket¬ 
tle, I stooped with him, thus declaring myself 
according to his command. ‘‘So, Bossu,” he 
gasped appreciatively, as we struggled off with 
our burden. “I might have known.” 

Having deposited our load inside. Fagot 
caught the water pail from off its shelf. 

“You keep watch while I fill up, Bossu,” he 
directed. “If they come, do not let them get be¬ 
yond the bottom step of the porch. For the mo¬ 
ment that is my dead line.” 

It was what I had hoped for and, hardly was 
he through the door, before I turned to Jeanne. 

“Well?” I burst out. “You are going to let 
him do it?” 

The girl shrugged hopelessly. 

“What would you have me do?” she retorted 
“He is determined, as he has been determined 
for years, and nothing can move him. I have 
seen him before, and I know. After Jean 
Pierre’s death he—” She paused, shuddering as 
at some terrible recollection. 

204 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 


“Ah, Bossu,’’ she went on, “if you had seen 
what I have, you would understand. I was little 
then, but I will never forget. For weeks, for 
months, he was like one mad. He upbraided, he 
reviled himself, for having failed in his duty to 
his son. T should have held them off, I should 
never have delivered him into their hands,’ was 
his one cry through all those dark days and 
nights. Now that this has come, he will not fail 
a second time in what he thinks his duty. He is 
mad again, but there is nothing to do.” 

She fell silent as Fagot hurried in with a pail 
of water; nor, after he departed, did I continue 
my protest. I understood now as well as she. 
Through her words had been explained this 
startling transformation of a timid irresolute old 
man into a being of relentless purpose. 

If before Fagot had cowered away from his 
daughter’s mere defiance, it had been because he 
had grappled with the inconceivable. He had 
been stunned by unfamiliarity. Now, through 
bitter experience, he knew unfailingly what to do. 

205 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


It was no wonder that, after all his endless, tor¬ 
tured rehearsals of the tragedy of Jeanne Pierre, 
he should find himself part perfect in his present 
role. 

Defeated a second time, I sat mute and help¬ 
less until, when the kettle was almost full, Fagot 
came in with a rush. Thrusting me his pail, he 
sprang to the comer where leaned his gun, a 
huge fowling piece with a bore like that of a 
small cannon. This he loaded with some special 
shells snatched from the shelf above the open 
fire, after which he returned and barred the door. 
Then he blew out the light. 

“They are coming, Bossu,’’ he announced. “In 
one way at least, the moon is in our favor. To 
find cover they must halt out of range.’’ 

I listened and, from beyond the door, I caught 
the tramp and shuffle of the advancing men. 
Grimly silent. Fagot clutched his great gun and 
awaited their approach. Going to the one win¬ 
dow in front, I peered outside. 

All were there from Voltaire Bon, walking in 
206 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 


front, to young Trappey who, apparently still 
dazed by his discovery, stumbled along in the 
rear. They walked slowly, gravely, like men 
bent upon some solemn and righteous errand, 
and their hands were empty of weapons of any 
kind. 

“There is no danger for the moment, Fagot,’^ 
said I. “All are unarmed.” 

“So,” he returned, and after a moment's 
thought unbarred the door. Then, as the men 
reached the open space before the cabin and, halt¬ 
ing, allowed Voltaire Bon to advance, he stepped 
out, gun in hand, upon the porch. By now the 
leader had reached the foot of the steps, and 
there Fagot stopped him with a curt command. 

“That is close enough,” he warned. “Just now 
it is my dead line.” 

The situation was explained. Had Voltaire 
Bon been present at the cabin for the past half- 
hour, he could not have been better informed of 
Fagot's determination. Yet the leader remained 
passive. His face looked white and drawn in 
207 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


the moonlight, and his great rugged frame was 
stooped and bowed as beneath some heavy bur¬ 
den. Evidently, through the death of his nephew, 
he had been hit hard. 

‘‘Come, Fagot,’’ he reproved, “this is no way 
to act. Would you make a bad affair worse? 
Dieu, it is terrible enough as it is. It has taken 
the life out of me.” 

“And now you have come to take the life out 
of my girl, eh?” snarled Fagot. 

The leader raised his hand, the great gnarled 
hand with which, for years, he had ruled his 
world. Sore stricken though he was, this uncon¬ 
scious gesture of his authority could not be de¬ 
nied. 

“No, Fagot,” he answered. “I do not seek your 
daughter’s life, although the proof of her guilt is 
overwhelming. This affair is beyond my justice. 
It is for the law. I have only come to tell you 
that to-morrow Jeanne must be taken to the prop¬ 
er authorities. You may accompany her and, 
save for an escort, there will be no restraint I 
208 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 


am sorry for you, Fagot, believe me. I am will¬ 
ing to do what I can. Surely you can not expect 
more 

It was a fair, a generous offer, and one that 
might have appealed to any man. But Fagot was 
no longer a man. He was like some maddened 
animal, at bay, and fighting for its young. In 
the pause that followed he laughed harshly, 
thrusting out his enormous gun. 

“Here is what I expect, Voltaire Bon,” he 
shouted. “Here is what is in store for the first 
one of you who comes armed within range. I 
have two barrels of buckshot, and the old gun 
scatters wide. Now that I have warned you, you 
may come after my daughter whenever you are 
of a mind to. As well now as later.” 

He ceased abruptly, his gun held ready for in¬ 
stant use. One week before, buckshot or no 
buckshot, the leader would have gone up those 
steps without hesitation. Now, however, he 
turned back to his followers. There ensued a 
low-pitched conversation, which Fagot endured 
209 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


with silent contempt. Then the leader returned 
to the dead line. 

"Tagot,” he announced, “since you are mad, 
it is doubly necessary that I should remain sane. 
My men are with me, and, even as you must 
know, we could storm this cabin and take your 
daughter before morning. This, however, we will 
not do. Matters are bad enough already without 
having your blood upon our hands. Therefore 
Ledet will depart at once for the nearest officer 
of the law, and until he is here you and yours 
will remain unmolested. You may come and go 
as you please about the camp, only you will not 
be allowed to escape. For the rest, I should ad¬ 
vise you to come to your senses before the officer 
arrives. He will not be so patient as myself.” 

The interview was ended; nor strangely 
enough, had it involved any discussion of 
Jeanne’s innocence or guilt. The leader was 
sure, Fagot indifferent. The men, shocked by 
the horror of the crime, were only too ready to 
welcome the intervention of the law. 


210 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 


As the little crowd dispersed, I experienced an 
acute feeling- of desertion. Before I had at least 
been assured of the sympathy of the unmarried 
men. Now all were against my cause. 

As for this cause, I now considered its every 
phase, lingering in the coolness of the porch long 
after Fagot has returned inside. Slowly, care¬ 
fully, I went over each detail of the terrible af¬ 
fair, and as I proceeded, such gleams of hope as 
might have shone before, were soon blotted out 
by a dark cloud of circumstance. The situation, 
desperate enough at first, now seemed hopeless. 
For the moment it was not a question of Jeanne. 
She could wait. First, Fagot must be saved 
from his own madness, and I alone could save 
him. 

But how to do it ? That was the problem. The 
camp was against me. I could not look for help 
even in my own ranks. I was entirely alone, 
and if Ledet made for Bayou Jules, the nearest 
settlement, I would have less than twelve hours 
of daylight to work in. Of all the puzzles with 


2II 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


which I had been faced it was the hardest, yet 
I persevered until finally I arrived at my deci¬ 
sion. 

Jeanne I determined not to question. In her 
few brief words to her father she had told all 
her story, and any further inquiries from myself 
might suggest a suspicion of guilt. At least she 
should not be denied such comfort as she might 
glean from the thought of my belief in her. 

Fagot I had already decided to leave strictly 
alone. Thoroughly desperate as he was, a word 
of protest or argument would most certainly 
cause him to banish me from the cabin. If all 
else failed, however, I promised myself that, at 
the last moment, I would have my try at getting 
his gun away from him. 

In the meantime but one course lay open to 
me. If I could not work through Fagot, I must 
work through Voltaire Bon. Also, since the 
leader was convinced of Jeanne’s guilt, I could 
only move him with the proof of her innocence. 
I must find that proof, and the discovery must 


212 


FAGOT TAKES COMMAND 


be made in those few hours of daylight that lay 
before me. 

To the identity of the real murderer I paid lit¬ 
tle heed beyond assuring myself of the innocence 
of the entire camp. Blaise Duron, through his 
overbearing ways, must have made innumerable 
enemies outside, any one of whom might have 
chosen this means of revenge. True, most men 
under such circumstances would have preferred 
a gun to a knife and, even with this unusual sub¬ 
stitution accounted for, there remained the ex¬ 
planation of that enormous wound. 

To go farther upon this road meant only in¬ 
creased confusion, and I resolutely held myself to 
my original purpose. If I proved Jeanne’s in¬ 
nocence undeniably, my own work was done. As 
for the balance of the trail, I could leave that to 
be nosed out by the blood-hounds of the law. 

“Come, Bossu,’| I said to myself as I arose for 
bed. “You mustjnot lose your grip again. You 
have done so once to-night, and it has cost you 
much evidence which is now hopelessly de- 
213 



THE PAINTED WOODS 


stroyed. Had you stayed by Duron’s body, had 
you examined it before it was disturbed, you 
might already have an answer to your question. 
From now on you must keep your courage, you 
must not think of defeat. A good night’s sleep, 
a clear brain at dawn and, as you have won be¬ 
fore, so will you win again. What if the time is 
short? Your success will depend on an instant’s 
discovery.” 

Thus I heartened myself and, even as I -turned 
away, a dark slender shape broke the calm silver 
of the water, bound outside. The affair had be¬ 
gun with pirogues. Now, through Ledet’s de¬ 
parture, it promised to end in the same manner. 
Truly it was a tragedy of the swamp. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


VOLTAIRE bond's THEORY 

T hat night, through sheer weariness, I 
slept well. Arising to a clear dawn, I be¬ 
gan my day by having a brief understanding 
with Fagot. Worn out like myself, and secure 
in Voltaire Eon’s promise of immunity, the old 
man had slept also, but the rest had only served 
to increase his fixity of purpose. Refreshed, he 
merely felt the better able to stand off his ene¬ 
mies. 

‘Tagot,” said I, “as I showed by my actions 
last night, I am with you to the end. For the 
present, however, I mean to trust to my wits 
rather than to force of arms. Once, jokingly, I 
told you that such talents as I was possessed of, 
were at Jeanne’s command. Now the jest has 

215 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


become a stern necessity. As you know, your 
daughter is innocent, and the proof of that inno¬ 
cence lies somewhere hereabouts. If possible, I 
am going to find it.” 

His gratitude was one of the most pitiful 
things that I have ever known. It shone through 
his mask of grimness, of fierce despair, like a 
light from that other Fagot who yet lurked 
somewhere within his tortured soul. 

‘‘Ah, Bossu,” he cried, “I will not try to thank 
you. I can only say that you are a man. It is 
wrong, perhaps, that you should cast your lot 
with ours, yet how can I refuse your aid? My 
back is against the wall, and I can not strike 
away the one friendly hand that reaches out to¬ 
ward me. As for your search, God grant that 
you are successful, as you have been before. For 
myself, I can only prove my daughter’s innocence 
with my gun.” 

At the sound of our voices Jeanne had come in 
from her little closetlike room in the rear. Evi¬ 
dently she had found scant rest, yet there was 
216 


VOLTAIRE EON’S THEORY 


nothing listless about her. Indeed, all the time 
that we talked she paced restlessly from one side 
of the cabin to the other, her whole being alive 
with a species of fierce restraint. She was like 
some wild creature that has been trapped and 
separated from its mate. 

As I bade her farewell she suddenly seized me, 
staring deep into my eyes. In her look there 
were pain and impatience, together with a sad 
supplication. Of doubt or of fear, I saw no faint¬ 
est trace. 

‘‘You will see Marcel?” she pleaded. “You 
will find out just how he is? I would go myself, 
but my father will not allow it.” 

“Rest assured, Jeanne,” I soothed her. “I 
will most certainly see him.” 

“You will not forget, Bossu?” she insisted. 
“You will not forget?” 

“I will not forget,” said I. “You may depend 
upon me.” 

“So,” she murmured, and turned back to her 
little room. 


217 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


That was all. Despite my words to Fagot, she 
had shown not the slightest interest in my quest. 
As well might I have departed on some small er¬ 
rand of my own. Our women are like that. When 
they love, they love hard. 

Going at once to Voltaire Eon’s cabin, I found 
him alone and at ease. That day the cypress 
rested in peace. Until Fagot’s affair was settled, 
there would be no work at the camp. 

The leader’s face still bore its marks of shock 
and grief, but upon it there was now stamped an 
expression of bitter relentlessness that boded ill 
for my mission. Evidently he had hardened dur¬ 
ing the night. 

‘‘Well, Bossu?” he questioned sternly, when I 
stood before him. “Has that madman sent you 
to say that he has returned to reason ?” 

“No, M’sieu,” I replied. “In that event he 
would have come himself. I am here to ask your 
assistance in certain investigations through 
which I hope to establish Jeanne’s innocence be¬ 
fore it is too late.” 


218 


VOLTAIRE EON’S THEORY 


The leader regarded me with a strange mix¬ 
ture of impatience and contempt. 

“So that is it, eh?” he scoffed. “If you will 
take my advice, you will return whence you came 
and employ your efforts in bringing Fagot back 
to his senses. Ledet should be here by six o’clock 
at the latest, and with him will come Sheriff Dal- 
bor who, for the moment, has jurisdiction at 
Bayou Jules. Perhaps you have heard of Dal- 
bor? He will do no parleying. Also my men 
have been unanimous in their offer to act as 
deputies.” 

I could not at once reply. Now indeed was my 
time cut down to the last second. I had hoped 
that, should Ledet arrive late, the assault would 
be postponed until the following morning. With 
Dalbor there would not be a moment lost. Only 
too well had I heard of him. Once refused his 
prisoner, I knew that he would go after her im¬ 
mediately, even though it were the blackest hour 
of the night. I thought of those stores estimated, 
that kettle filled, against a long siege. Poor 


219 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Fagot! He could do as well with a drop and a 
crust. 

“So/’ said the leader, who still continued to 
regard me. “You realize your waste of time? 
Then return and follow the only course left open 
to you. You have a quick tongue, and even the 
worst affairs look better in the sunlight.” 

He paused and continued in a kindlier tone— 
“Believe me, Bossu, I appreciate your talents of 
investigation. I have heard of you before, and 
I know that you have done some clever things. 
This affair, however, is too certain. There is 
nothing to find. Take even such evidence as you 
can accumulate without effort. 

“Jeanne flouts my nephew for Var, and the 
two have a duel in which you, yourself, claim an 
unfair stroke. In the hearing that follows Jeanne 
replies to my nephew’s overtures of friendship 
with naked steel, all but committing the murder 
then and there. Next day, being under the influ¬ 
ence of liquor, my nephew declares that he will 
have Jeanne even though, to use his own words. 


220 


VOLTAIRE EON’S THEORY 


she bristles with knives like a porcupine. The day 
after that he departs, still drunk, to the swamp; 
being followed by Jeanne who, as can be proved, 
was armed with her big knife. That night my 
nephew drifts in dead in his pirogue, with a 
wound in his back peculiar to that knife, and with 
one of Jeanne’s gloves gripped in his hand. 

“So there you are, Bossu, and to myself and 
the rest the crime is as plain as though it had 
been committed publicly. Jeanne met my nephew 
in the swamp and he, being still maudlin, sought 
to make good his boast of the day before. As he 
seized her she reached for her knife, and he, 
realizing her intention, caught at her hand. He 
missed the hand but won the glove and, while 
puzzled and stupid he considered his prize, 
Jeanne repeated her motion and stabbed him in 
the back. Afterward, leaving him as he fell, she 
made her escape. Come, Bossu. You see it now, 
do you not ? Otherwise you are blind.” 

I shook my head. 

“No, M’sieu,” I replied. “I do not see it. The 


221 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


strength of such evidence as you have recited I 
grant you. Your theory of the crime, however, 
is as impossible as it is ridiculous.” 

I had counted upon the effect of my words, 
and I was not disappointed. The leader flushed 
angrily. His hands gripped the arms of his chair. 
At least I had disturbed the calmness of his abso¬ 
lute assurance. 

“So I am ridiculous, am I?” he growled. 
“Then what is your theory, M’sieu Jean Le 
Bossu? Perhaps, with your cleverness, you have 
found out already what actually occurred?” 

I again shook my head. 

“No, M’sieu,” I repeated. “So far I have 
found out nothing. As for my theory, I have 
none, save that I am as certain of Jeanne’s inno¬ 
cence as I am that she speaks the truth when she 
says that she dropped her glove in the swamp. 
Last night I unfortunately became demoralized, 
and so lost the opportunity to examine the body 
before it was moved. Therefore I have no ex¬ 
ternal evidence to go upon, save only a certain bit 


222 


VOLTAIRE EON’S THEORY 


of which I will inform you later. Your version 
of the affair, however, falls down before the 
mere test of common sense. 

‘‘First you say that Jeanne stabbed your 
nephew at the moment of his seizing- her. In 
that event she did so from in front, and over his 
shoulder, a feat truly impossible when you con¬ 
sider the length and broadness of her blade, and 
Duron’s great size. If you would make an ex¬ 
periment, shape a board to the likeness of 
Jeanne’s knife and try, in a similar manner, to 
stab even a smaller man. Should he fail to halt 
your stroke before it begins to descend, I will 
freely acknowledge all that you claim. If your 
nephew stopped Jeanne the first time, why not 
the second ? Also what was he doing while she 
slowly forced her great blade almost through 
him? 

“In the second place you say that Jeanne left 
him where he fell. As he arrived thoroughly 
soaked all over, he evidently fell into the water. 
How then did he get back into the pirogue again ? 

223 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Your only answer is that Jeanne put him there 
which, on account of his weight, is ridiculous/’ 

The leader stirred uneasily in his chair. He 
was suffering from a gradual loss of self-confi¬ 
dence. 

*T see, Bossu,” he admitted. “As they say, 
you are no fool. Following your reasoning then, 
it is plain that Jeanne slipped up behind him, and 
stabbed him as he sat in his pirogue. Thus, un¬ 
noticed, she had ample time and swing in which 
to drive her great knife through his back. Dying 
instantly, he was found just as he fell.” 

“That will not do either, M’sieu,” I contra¬ 
dicted. “In that event he would have been found 
doubled up in the forward part of the pirogue 
where he had pitched from his seat. Also there 
are his soaked clothes to explain. No, he fell in 
the water, and we return to my original question. 
How did he get back into the pirogue again?” 

By now the leader’s uneasiness had changed to 
a sullen anger that was strangely reminiscent of 
Blaise Duron himself. 


224 


VOLTAIRE BON’S THEORY 


**Dieu/* he shouted. “You are like a mosquito 
with your one whining question. How then did 
he get back into the pirogue?’’ 

“He got into it himself, and after he was in¬ 
jured, M’sieu,” I answered. “This I know 
through that one bit of evidence gleaned from 
the demoralization of last night. Your nephew 
was a strong man, and hard to kill. After he 
was struck he managed to reach his pirogue, and 
to grasp it with one hand while he rolled into it 
As he reached the bottom he died. His position 
when found proves this beyond a doubt. Ask 
Ledet or any of the others who saw him first, 
and they will bear me out in what I say. His 
attitude was too natural. It could not have been 
arranged after death by any human hand.” 

“And the glove ?” demanded the leader, as if in 
sudden remembrance. 

“That is a question that I fear will never be an¬ 
swered, M’sieu,” I replied. “Perhaps he had just 
found it. Perhaps, having stored it in his blouse 
for safe-keeping, he clutched it in his struggle to 
225 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


find his wound. Perhaps he really loved Jeanne 
and drew it forth at the last moment to ease the 
passing of his soul.’’ 

The leader growled a dissent. 

^‘Perhaps will not do, Bossu,” said he. “Nev¬ 
ertheless you make a good case of it,” he went on 
after a moment. “What now do you say of this ? 
It drifted in during the night, and was brought 
me by one of the men a while before you came.” 

Reaching out, he seized an object that stood in 
the comer of the room and handed it to me. It 
was a paddle, long and heavy, and of the sort 
commonly used by swampers. Upon the handle 
had been burned with some pointed instrument a 
rude “B. D.” 

Moving to the window, I examined the paddle 
carefully, going over it inch by inch in the morn¬ 
ing light. Through its long immersion it had 
been washed clean of such marks as were not in¬ 
delible, and its handle and blade yielded nothing 
to my search. As I raised it, however, and ex¬ 
amined the blade’s under edge, I was more suc- 
226 


VOLTAIRE EON’S THEORY 


cessful. Here, through constant use, the texture 
of the wood had been worn into a fringe-like half 
circle of innumerable tiny splinters. Forced into 
the splinters were several atoms of a pinkish hue. 
I recognized these atoms at once. Also I found 
that they were quite fresh. 

‘"Well?” questioned the leader as I returned the 
paddle. ‘‘Have you found anything, Bossu?” 

“Yes, M’sieu,’" I replied. “I have discovered 
how your nephew rolled into his pirogue without 
filling it full of water. As you have perhaps 
heard, the bottom was scarcely covered. For the 
present I will say no more. When we come to 
the pirogue itself, I trust that I may be able to 
make my meaning clearer.” 

“Then you mean to keep on ?” he asked. 

“Yes, M’sieu,” I returned. “To plead with 
Fagot is useless. He has forbidden me to speak, 
and one word will close his cabin to me. Thus I 
can only do my best to prove Jeanne’s innocence 
in such time as is left to me, and I again ask your 
assistance in that proof. 

227 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘Surely you will not refuse to do what you can 
in saving the life of this old madman? I do not 
plead for mercy, M’sieu. It is to your justice 
that I appeal.” 

A pause followed during which I endured a 
suspense that I trust will never be mine again. 
If the leader refused, the most important of all 
my evidence would be denied to me. I hoped 
that I had impressed him by exploding his the¬ 
ory, which must also be the theory of the camp. 
At best I prayed only for a temporary victory. 
Upon further consideration I knew that he must 
inevitably return to his former views. As I 
waited my nails bit into my palms, as from the 
bearing of some intense pain. 

Then Voltaire Bon spoke in the slow judicial 
tones of his returned authority. 

Bossu,” said he. ‘T will do what I can.” 

In an instant I had him out of his chair. 

“Come then, M’sieu,” I cried. “We will begin 
with the body and the clothes. Hurry, M’sieu, 
for already I have wasted much time. For the 
past hour I should have been upon the trail” 

228 


CHAPTER XXIV 

THE TRAIL 

T he leader’s cabin, as became his impor¬ 
tance, contained three rooms. In the larg¬ 
est of these I found the body of Blaise Duron al¬ 
ready laid out for burial. Holy candles burned 
at the head and feet. The hands, folded across 
the breast, pressed a crucifix. As we entered 
Madame Bon knelt at prayer, but at a sign from 
her husband she silently withdrew. 

This part of my investigation I will pass over 
with a word. It is not pleasant to remember. 
There was no mark save the wound, and this, 
through its size and depth, told only its former 
story of a stroke of great force and power. 

Yet I was not discouraged, for I had staked 
my hopes upon my examination of the clothes. 
229 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


There, if anywhere, I expected to find what I 
sought. 

Therefore my disappointment may be imag¬ 
ined when Madame Bon produced the garments 
rough dried from a recent washing. Save for 
such stubborn bloodstains as had defied the soap 
and water, they had been cleansed of everything 
that might have served me. 

‘‘Madame, Madame,” I cried. “What have 
you done?” 

At once Madame Bon ceased the low sobbing 
moan through which she had given vent to her 
feelings. A stout placid woman, she found little 
difficulty in mastering her grief. 

“What have I done ?” she echoed tartly. “Can 
you not see for yourself? Last night my hus¬ 
band gave me these clothes, and told me to put 
them carefully away, that later they might be 
used as evidence. Would you have had me send 
them all stained and draggled before M’sieu the 
Judge? I washed them at once as best I could, 
meaning to iron them this morning, and so have 
230 


THE TRAIL 


them ready for the officer. Even in the swamp, 
Bossu, we have our pride.’' 

I made no further remonstrance. She would 
not have understood. 

‘‘And when you washed the clothes, Madame, 
did you notice any peculiar stains or accumula¬ 
tions of any kind?” I questioned. “Think care¬ 
fully, if you please. It is most important.” 

At this she rebuked me sharply. 

“Noticed?” she cried. “Would you have me 
notice such trifles when my nephew lay murdered 
within the house?” 

“The water then, Madame,” I continued des¬ 
perately. “Where did you empty it when you 
were through?” 

The good lady shuddered, closing her eyes as 
though to shut out some horrid vision. 

“Bossu, Bossu,” she protested weakly. “How 
can you ask of such things ? When I was through 
I cast it, bowl and all, from one of the landings. 
You should have seen it. It was not nice to 
empty about.” 


23 r 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“Pardon, Madame,” I apologized. “If I have 
upset you, it has been only in the interests of 
justice. One look at the clothes, and I will 
trouble you no more.” 

I examined them but, although I exercised the 
utmost care, I discovered little that I had not 
guessed before. The lower garments had noth¬ 
ing to offer. The blouse, of a peculiar bluish 
cottonade, was little more enlightening. Indeed, 
thanks to Madame Bon's housewifely pride, there 
was nothing left to draw my attention save the 
rent in the back, and the buttons along the front. 

The rent, ragged and irregular, not only spoke, 
like the wound, of a powerful blow; it went fur¬ 
ther and proved that this blow had been struck 
with a rough-edged instrument. The tough cloth 
of the blouse had not been parted quickly or 
cleanly. It had been torn, rather than cut and, 
from their heavier stain, one could see that the 
raveled edges of the rent had been forced into 
the wound. Yet, despite its evident value in re¬ 
spect to a girFs strength of arm, I kept this dis- 
232 


THE TRAIL 


covery to myself. Through constant hacking 
Jeanne’s blade had been nicked until it was little 
better than that of a saw. 

With the buttons I was more successful. Orig¬ 
inally four in number, they were now reduced to 
three, the second one from the top having been 
violently wrenched away. In proof of this 
wrenching a tiny sliver of bone still adhered to 
the twist of thread that had held the button in 
place. Had it not been for the washing, I might 
have gone further and found the marks left by 
the clutching fingers. Now the cloth was of that 
uniform stiffness peculiar to garments that have 
been rough dried. 

‘‘Observe that lost button, M’sieu,” I re¬ 
quested, as I handed the blouse to the leader. “It 
will tell you how your nephew came by the 
glove.” 

But Voltaire Bon had followed my reasoning 
with a most disconcerting thoroughness. 

“Or how he struggled blindly to find his 
wound,” he replied. 


233 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘As you please, M’sieu,” said I with such in¬ 
difference as I could muster. “Let us now ex¬ 
amine the pirogue. Afterward, with your per¬ 
mission, I will ask some questions.” 

Passing out, we went down to the water from 
which Duron’s pirogue had been removed. It 
now lay where it had been dragged a short dis¬ 
tance up the bank, and about it was gathered a 
little knot of swampers. Somewhat apart from 
them Mouret, one of the married men, sat upon 
a stump, a rifle cradled across his knees. The 
leader was taking no chances on a sudden escape. 

My inspection of the pirogue, upon which I 
spent considerable time, need not be recounted in 
detail. Under the silent, yet inquisitive, stare of 
the swampers I examined the craft to its faintest 
scratch, taking note of each mark and stain. In 
the end I made two important discoveries. 

The first I came upon at the bow which, on 
both sides, and for a short distance above the 
water line, was scraped as from a contact with 
some rough surface. Searching here, I soon 

234 


THE TRAIL 


brought to light many more of the same pinkish 
atoms that I had discovered upon the end of the 
paddle. Next, going farther afield, I had little 
difficulty in detecting numerous other atoms 
which were scattered about amid the maze of 
bruises and scratches that decorated the pirogue’s 
outside. These atoms together with the scraping 
at the bow I pointed out to the leader. 

My second discovery was reserved for the end 
when, having examined the pirogue elsewhere, I 
turned my attention to its inside. The bottom 
had been wiped dry of its drippings of blood and 
water, leaving only a smeared blur of sediment. 
Scraping carefully at this sediment with my 
knife, a little forward of the paddler’s seat, I un¬ 
covered the myriad of small, furrow-like scars 
left by the nails of Duron’s boots. These scars I 
studied minutely until I finally traced a few that 
were different from the rest. They were fresher, 
they were graven more deeply, and they ran in 
parallel lines. Having shown them also to the 
leader, I announced that I was through. 


235 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“Well?” he inquired, as I arose from my 
task. “What of your discoveries, Bossu?” 

“Before I explain them, I would like to put my 
questions, M’sieu,” I answered. “As they are 
concerned solely with the events of yesterday and 
with the swamp, it will be best for all to hear 
them. Perhaps there are those who may be able 
to add to your information. But to begin. At 
what time yesterday did your nephew arrive 
where you were working?” 

The leader considered a moment. 

“It was after noon,” he replied. “I could not 
answer to the minute.” 

“His condition?” 

“He was drunk—too drunk, in fact, to be of 
any use at his calling.” 

“He had his ax?” 

“Yes, at the time of his arrival.” 

“He wished to work?” 

“He suggested it, but I ordered him off. Af¬ 
ter some words he departed.” 

“His words?” 


236 


THE TRAIL 


“I paid little attention to them. One phrase, 
however, I remember. *Bien, M’sieu,’ he 
shouted. ‘Yours is not the only trade.’ It was 
then that he cast his ax into the water.” 

‘Tn what direction did he depart?” 

‘‘When last I saw him he was pushing back in¬ 
to the swamp.” 

“You saw him no more after that?” 

“Not alive.” 

I took another tack. 

“Far back in the swamp many of the trees are 
covered at their base with a pinkish lichen, are 
they not, M’sieu?” I inquired. 

“They are,” he replied. 

“This condition prevails to a considerable ex¬ 
tent?” 

“Only to a certain belt of trees.” 

“The direction taken by this belt?” 

“It extends north and south.” 

“Its length?” 

“A mile, perhaps more.” 

I ceased, thanking him for his patience. 

237 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“You have anything to add to this?” I asked, 
turning to the men. 

They all shook their heads and one, speaking 
up for the rest, observed—“No, Bossu. You 
must find out the balance for yourself. As he 
says, the leader was the last to see Duron alive, 
and we know little of that belt of pink trees 
which we call the painted woods. It lies beyond 
our usual haunts, and is not within easy reach 
when one goes outside by way of open water.” 

Thanking him also, I turned away. For the 
moment there was nothing more to be learned at 
the camp. There was no use in suspecting the 
men. The leader would be able to account for 
every one of them. There remained only the re¬ 
cital of my discoveries to Voltaire Bon, and this 
I wished to accomplish in private. At my sug¬ 
gestion we returned whence we had come. 

“And now out with it, Bossu,” cried the leader 
impatiently, when we were once more seated in¬ 
side his cabin. “What is it that you think you 
know ?” 


238 


THE TRAIL 


'T know three things, M’sieu,’’ I answered. “I 
can now give you the place where your nephew 
died, his position before death, and the means by 
which he tumbled into his pirogue without filling 
it with water. Also I can set forth at least four 
reasons which make it impossible for Jeanne to 
have committed the crime. As to the identity of 
the real murderer and the exact weapon used, I 
am still in the dark. 

‘To begin with, your nephew was killed in 
what you call the painted woods. You remem¬ 
ber those tiny bits of pink lichen? They could 
have come from nowhere else. That he was killed 
there, and not upon his way or his return, I know 
from the manner in which the bits are scattered. 
Drunk or sober, Blaise Duron was ever an expert 
with the pirogue. As long as he could wield a 
paddle he would never have struck the number of 
trunks and knees that are accounted for by that 
scattering of pink atoms. The current bumped 
them after he was dead. I myself made such a 
journey here, and I know. 

239 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘‘The scars that I showed you inside the 
pirogue explain your nephew’s position before 
death. He was standing upright, and afterward 
he fell backward into the water. Consider those 
scars, M’sieu. They were fresher than the others, 
and they were many times as deep. Your nephew 
had no spikes. He wore only his ordinary boots* 
the blunt nails of which must have been dragged 
over the bottom with unusual violence and swift¬ 
ness to have left such marks. 

“The scraping at the bow you must already 
understand. Surely nothing could speak plainer 
of a pirogue jammed among the knees! It was 
when he rose to free himself that your nephew 
died. Those few bits of lichen upon the end of 
the paddle show that he made the attempt, but 
death caught him before he could shove clear. 
That he was still jammed when he fell is 
explained by those scars in the bottom running 
parallel to one another. Had the pirogue been 
unsteadied, the heels would not have dragged 
evenly upward. They would have slid wildly 
240 


THE TRAIL 


sideways and outward, leaving a corresponding 
mark. 

‘‘As for your nephew’s return without filling 
his pirogue with water, I leave that to your imag¬ 
ination. Still firmly held, the craft had no 
chance to tip. Afterward, freed by the current 
and the peculiar position of the body, it drifted 
away.” 

I paused for effect, but the leader was as 
ready as ever with his question. 

“Then, if, as you say, my nephew was so clever 
with his pirogue, how did he allow himself to be 
jammed?” he demanded. 

“His attention was distracted for the moment, 
M’sieu,” I countered. “Had he been closer in, 
and were it not for that absent button of the 
blouse, I should still stick to my former guess 
that he had just discovered the glove. At all 
events, it is most probable that he had a bottle 
with him. Perhaps, while drinking from it be¬ 
tween strokes, he jammed.” 

At least the leader did not argue the point. 

241 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“Proceed,” he growled. 

“I am through save for my summing up, 
M’sieu,” said I. ‘T promised you four reasons 
that would make the commission of the crime by 
Jeanne impossible. Here they are. 

“First, through his upright position, Jeanne 
could never have come upon your nephew un¬ 
noticed. Secondly, once a man of Duron’s size 
and strength was upon his feet, no girl could 
have found either the time or the chance to make 
such a wound with such a weapon. Thirdly, 
even were this possible, the stroke was beyond 
Jeanne’s power. Fourthly, considering her arri¬ 
val and departure, and the time involved in gath¬ 
ering her moss, Jeanne, with her slow-flat-bot¬ 
tomed boat, could never have penetrated as far 
as the painted woods. Surely you will agree with 
me there, M’sieu. Thus, since it was impossible 
for Jeanne to have reached the scene of the 
crime, it naturally follows that she could never 
have committed it.” 

I had played my trump card, and I awaited 
242 


THE TRAIL 


the result in an agony of impatience. This time, 
however, my suspense was short lived. Inter¬ 
ested, impressed, the leader responded at once 
with his appreciation. 

“That is good, Bossu,’’ he approved. “From 
your standpoint you have worked it all out to 
the last detail. Keep on as you have started, and 
you will have a pretty story to tell the jury.” 

“Then you will give me a chance, M^sieu?” I 
cried. “You will hold off the sheriff until I 
have had my try at those painted woods ?” 

He stared at me in surprise. Understanding 
my efforts, he had not grasped their immediate 
purpose. 

“Hold him off?” he exclaimed. “Dalbor? 
Are you mad, Bossu? Even if I wished to it 
would be impossible. As well try to hold off a 
hurricane.” 

“But think of Fagot, M'sieu,” I protested. 

“That is his affair,” he shrugged. “I can do 
nothing now that the matter is in the hands of 
the law. Also it will not profit you to go with 

243 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


your tale to the sheriff. If now you could lay 
your hands on the one whom you term the real 
murderer, it might be different. Then, perhaps, 
Dalbor would be only too willing to turn his ac¬ 
tivities elsewhere.’’ 

“But to do so I must first scour the swamp, 
M’sieu,” I persisted. “Surely, understanding 
this, you can realize the necessity for time ? Sure¬ 
ly, as the one in authority, the sheriff will listen 
to you ? Give me but one more day for my work, 
M’sieu. Think of Fagot, your old friend. Last 
night you said that you were sorry for him.” 

Again the leader shrugged. He was thinking 
his own thoughts now, and his interest, his ap¬ 
preciation, had departed. If I had impressed him, 
it had not been for long. 

“Perhaps there were others demoralized be¬ 
sides yourself last night, Bossu,” he returned. “I 
repeat I can do nothing.” Looking toward the 
door, he added meaningly: “At least you have 
this afternoon.” 

Taking the hint, I left him to return swiftly to 

244 


THE TRAIL 


Fagot. It was my third defeat, and of the three 
it was the hardest. To me it was all so clear, so 
simple. How the leader doubted I could not 
understand. 

At the cabin of the besieged I found all in 
readiness for the coming assault. To the single 
window which looked out upon the slope, a mat¬ 
tress had been fastened half-way up. Upon the 
floor beneath stood a regiment of the special, 
buckshot shells, flanked by a similar amount of 
ammunition for my own gun. A second mat¬ 
tress had been nailed to the door of the small 
back room in which Jeanne was to take refuge 
during the firing. The kettle now brimmed with 
water. Upon the table was a quantity of pre¬ 
pared food. 

“Well?’’ demanded Fagot as he let me in. 
“WhatTuck? At least I am ready. I will make 
it hot for them out there.” 

“I have failed,” I announced briefly. “There 
is no time now to explain. The officer is Dal- 
bor, himself, and he is expected by six o’clock. 

245 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


According to Voltaire Bon I can stop him in only 
one way. To find this way I must search the 
swamp. I am off at once, and I will try to be 
back no later than a quarter to six. Should I be 
delayed, you must find some way to let me in, 
even though you are under fire. You under¬ 
stand?” 

Fagot returned a surly assent. ^^Bien” said he. 
*T can only promise to do my best. Once they 
begin, it will be every man for himself.” 

Snatching some food I turned to depart, but 
before I could hurry outside, Jeanne caught at 
my arm. ‘‘Marcel,” she cried. “What of Marcel, 
Bossu?” 

I could only reply with a shake of my head. In 
the interest of my investigation, I had forgotten 
all about her request. She also said no word, 
but the reproach in her eyes was, at that moment, 
almost more than I could bear. 

Poor Jeanne! Her thoughts were not of my 
failure, but of the man she loved. As I have 
said, our women are like that. 

246 


CHAPTER XXV 


NATURE REPAYS 

D espite all my efforts at haste throughout 
the morning, it was well after noon when 
I left the camp. With hard paddling I hoped to 
reach the painted woods by two o’clock. This 
would leave me little more than an hour for my 
search, but it was the best that I could do. I 
must be back before the sheriff arrived and, 
through experience, I knew that I must allow 
myself at least a small margin of time in case of 
accident. 

Making the most of the open water, I entered 
the swamp and pushed back into it in a straight 
line. If I kept on I must sooner or later reach 
the painted woods. My point of entry was, un¬ 
fortunately, of little consequence. The pink trees 

247 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


extended for more than a mile, and anywhere 
among them Duron might have met his death. 
As well search one spot as another, since I could 
not search the whole. 

Herein lay the difficulty of my undertaking. 
Had I had a day even, I might hurriedly have 
explored the belt from one end to the other. An 
hour was as inadequate as it was tantalizing. I 
could only trust in that luck which is the last 
refuge of those in despair. Perhaps I might en¬ 
ter near the required spot. At all events I was 
doing the one thing possible for Fagot and my¬ 
self. Had I remained at camp or cabin, the in¬ 
activity would have driven me mad. 

I pushed back, first past the open spaces 
cleared by Voltaire Bon and his men, next into 
the stiff, unbroken ranks of the virgin cypress. 
Inside it was dreadfully close and still. To my 
feverish impatience the silence, the immobility of 
the swamp was exasperating. The trees, stretch¬ 
ing away in endless, stately sequence, gave forth 
not the slightest whisper. Their moss hung limp 
248 


NATURE REPAYS 


and motionless in the moist breathless air. From 
their mat of branches came not the faintest rip¬ 
ple of foliage. 

Back I pushed until the growth grew denser 
and thicker, and small spots of pink began to 
mar the uniform brownness of the surrounding 
trunks. I was nearing my goal now, and with 
each hurried stroke I realized more fully the folly 
of my mission. What if I did have the supreme 
luck to enter near the required spot? Would I 
be any wiser than I had been before? At best I 
could only find the knee that had jammed Duron 
—a mere, gnarled upthrust of wood and lichen, 
similar, save for its bruises, to any of its count¬ 
less fellows. 

There would be no tracks or marks, of foot or 
hand, in that wilderness of running water. Even 
such lost or unnoticed trifles as often identify a 
crime, would have long since been carried away 
by the current. 

It was the blindest of blind trails, and I had 
set out upon it, not in search of a clue, but in the 
249 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


hope of finding the murderer himself. At last I 
realized that, in escaping from the madness of 
inaction, I had only run into the far greater mad¬ 
ness of absurd and futile effort. Had I stayed at 
the camp, I would at least have kept Voltaire 
Bon’s appreciation. Now he would laugh at me 
for a fool. 

Utterly hopeless and disheartened, I finally en¬ 
tered the grotesque dimness of the painted 
woods. Here, save for the lichen, the character 
of the swamp was unchanged. Yet, had I 
searched the world over, I could have found no 
truer setting for the horrors of murder. 

The trees, blotched and leprous, stood out with 
ghastly pallor against the gloom, their trunks 
splashed by the brush of Nature in all the varied 
shades of pink and crimson. They were like the 
ghosts of trees—vague, formless ghosts, that 
slipped in and out of the shadows as in some 
weird game of hide-and-seek. And all about, on 
trunk, and root, and knee, those crimson gouts 
were spattered, as from all the blood shed since 
the beginning of time. 


250 


NATURE REPAYS 


My search, to which I braced myself at once, 
proved even more fruitless than I had feared. 
Having entered in a straight line from the cen¬ 
ter of the swamp, I took myself to be also in the 
center of the belt. Here Duron most probably 
entered; although afterward he might have fol¬ 
lowed the belt either to the north or south. 
Blazing a tree, I staked my choice of direction 
upon the toss of a coin. It fell south, and a mo¬ 
ment later I was upon my way, my eyes taking 
note of each knee that seemed to offer a chance 
to trap the unwary. 

In less than five minutes I was ready to give 
up. It was not only the vast, inconceivable num¬ 
ber of the knees. It was also the impossibility 
of identifying, even if found, the ones that I 
sought. I had only the scrapings left by the 
jammed pirogue to go upon. Through drifting 
logs and falling branches, similar scrapings were 
scattered about on every hand. At the camp I 
had searched a few definite objects for certain 
definite marks. Here both objects and marks 
were as indefinite as they were innumerable. 


251 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Yet I kept on throughout my appointed hour. 
Having arrived, I could only justify my presence 
there by perseverance. 

It was shortly after three o’clock when, hav¬ 
ing doubled back to my blaze, I set out on my 
return. I was calm now, with that calmness 
which acknowledges the worst. Jeanne I might 
clear in time. Fagot, save for my last desperate 
course, was beyond my aid. It is no easy task to 
wrest a shotgun from a blood-crazed madman, 
however old. Also it is not a pleasant one when 
the madman happens to be your friend. And 
Fagot had called me a man. As I thought of 
what lay before me, I came to know what Judas 
must have felt. 

Sullenly, almost carelessly, I threaded my out¬ 
ward way. Within me burned a dull resentment 
against the absurdity of my quest. For all the 
good that it had done me, I might have drifted 
through the swamp as insensible as when I first 
arrived. I recalled that vague, tortured journey, 
with its brief flashes of consciousness. I pic- 
252 


NATURE REPAYS 


tured the sweet face of Jeanne, peering down at 
me through my mist of pain. It was curious, I 
thought, how the events of the past few weeks 
had worked back upon themselves. First had 
come the snake, then the hopelessness of the 
swamp, then Jeanne, the race, the duel, the mur¬ 
der, and now the hopelessness of the swamp 
again. It needed only the snake to complete the 
circle. 

Then, roused from my abstraction by the bump 
of a root, I glanced up and saw him. He was a 
huge, rusty moccasin—almost the counterpart of 
my former assailant—and he lay coiled about a 
near-by knee. His flat cruel head was pointed 
away from me and one coil, caught by a protub¬ 
erance, was lifted higher than the rest. 

It was that upraised coil which decided me. 
Otherwise, despite my hatred of his kind, I 
would never have wasted the time required to 
stalk him. But the call of his humped scaly thick¬ 
ness was irresistible. Breathless, wary, I approach¬ 
ed until my paddle flashed down in its blow. 

253 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


The blow, hard and true, was helped by the 
sharpness of the knee. The protuberance, struck 
fairly, was driven clear through the moccasin, 
impaling him. An instant I watched his struggles 
as he strove to writhe himself into the water. 
Then, as I gazed at the ragged sliver of cypress 
thrust through the snake’s broken back, the idea 
came to me. 

It was a ridiculously simple idea. Indeed, even 
as I grasped it, I marveled that I had not arrived 
at it long before as the one logical outcome of my 
investigations. Now I saw that through my 
frantic haste and anxiety, I had been blinded to 
the very obvious-meaning of what I had discov¬ 
ered at the camp. 

It had remained for Nature, wearying of my 
stupidity, to open my eyes. If before she had 
sought to destroy me, she now repaid in full with 
a brief flash of understanding. No longer did I 
struggle with a theory—I knew. The trail was 
open. Fagot was saved. I had vindicated the 
maddest of quests. 


254 


NATURE REPAYS 


I did not put back to confirm this new discov¬ 
ery. I was sure, and the matter could wait. With 
what I now had to tell him, Voltaire Bon could 
scarce refuse the delay necessary for a complete 
investigation. 

Still forward I pushed in eager triumph, and 
as I went I became gradually conscious of a far- 
off peculiar sound. First heard it was like the 
dripping of distant water. Next it seemed a dry 
methodical crackle, as from the regular snapping 
of twigs. Later, as it approached nearer, the 
sound declared itself and became a series of faint 
but unmistakable explosions. 

It was a launch, and her business out there up¬ 
on the open water was only too easily explained. 
Ledet, through the presence of some trader at 
Bayou Jules, had stolen a march on me. Hav¬ 
ing exchanged paddle for propeller, he was arriv¬ 
ing with the sheriff a good two hours before the 
expected time. 

It was the last blow of a treacherous Fate, yet 
I faced it determinedly. After what I had dis- 

255 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


covered defeat was impossible, I told myself. 
Now that I knew, I could not, would not, let 
them beat me. 

One swift glance, and I had determined my 
exact situation. I was but half-way out, and al¬ 
ready the m.ocking sounds of the launch had died 
away in the distance. Before me lay an ordinary 
journey of some three-quarters of an hour. I 
would simply have to make it an extraordinary 
journey, that was all. Defiantly aglow, as at 
some voiceless challenge, I bent to my task. 
When I bit into the water it was with the fierce 
yet measured stroke of one who spurns a starting 
line. 

Of the next thirU' minutes I have only a con¬ 
fused recollection as of an endless period of sus¬ 
pense and pain. Starting at top speed, I never 
for a moment relaxed the swiftness of my stroke. 
I did not think of the folly, the danger, of such 
a course. My thoughts, like the bow of my 
pirogue, raced on ahead of me. “Would I arrive 
in time, would I arrive in time?’' That was the 
256 


NATURE REPAYS 


question that droned in my ears to the dip of my 
flying paddle. 

How I cleared that swamp without disaster I 
have never known. God, Himself, must have 
directed my path. Sharp fangs of root and knee 
snapped at me from every side, yet always T 
managed to evade them. 

It was not until I had made the clearings, that 
my thoughts were dragged back from the goal 
ahead to the ever-increasing torture of my body. 
By now there pulsed through my back and arms, 
a flood as of living fire. My eyes were half 
blinded with sweat and strain, while my hands, 
calloused by the toil of years, were beginning to 
puff into a torment of hard leathery blisters. 
Each moment it seemed that I must slow down, 
yet always I found the endurance for another 
stroke. 

It was no longer a race against death. It had 
developed into something beyond that. It was 
more like the piling of infinite, agonized move¬ 
ments into a pinnacle of supreme endeavor. 

257 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Past the clearings, through the last outer 
fringe of trees I sped, my head still bowed to my 
work. It was no use to look up, now that I w^as 
upon open water, and in sight of the camp. The 
hot glare of the afternoon sun would only strike 
into my half-closed eyes, blinding them com¬ 
pletely. Success or failure lay in view, yet the 
sight of it was denied me. I must clear the last 
tortured yard of that dreadful course before my 
efforts would be rewarded. Dogged yet hopeful, 
I tore away at the water. At least no shot had 
sounded. 

I have often regretted that none were there to 
mark my passage from swamp to landings. Per¬ 
haps it was worthy of Voltaire Bon's silver token. 
I can not say. At all events I arrived with a 
chum of white foam beneath my bow, and, dash¬ 
ing the sweat from my eyes, looked up in the 
welcome shadow. 

At first glance the camp appeared deserted. 
Landings and cabin vrere bereft of a human soul. 
Save for the launch, I caught no evidence of what 
I feared. 


258 


NATURE REPAYS 


Then, searching the slope, I saw, just below 
Fagot’s cabin, a ragged half-circle of crouching 
figures. From this half-circle the sunlight struck 
a hard glint, as of steel, and slightly in advance 
of it, yet another figure stooped alone. Even as 
I gazed this figure raised a hand, and the half¬ 
circle began to close in. 

Such strength as remained to me I put into my 
voice. 

‘‘Hold, hold, M’sieu Dalbor,” I shouted. “You 
are about to shed innocent blood. Out there, in 
fhe swamp, I have discovered the real murderer.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE PROOF 

S HERIFF Dalbor was as cautious as he was 
determined. At my shout he halted his 
men, but he did not allow them to break their 
formation. Also, before coming forward to in¬ 
terview me, he beckoned a figure from the ranks 
into his place—the rugged bearded figure of Vol¬ 
taire Bon. This much I caught as I scrambled 
from my pirogue and ran up one of the landings. 

The sheriff met me upon the shore. He was 
a short, heavy, red-faced man, not stout but 
sturdy, and his general appearance gave one the 
impression of a slow good-humor. Here, I told 
myself, was one not easily to be reckoned with. 
In the more serious matters of life a smile is far 
harder to defeat than a scowl. 


260 


THE PROOF 


‘‘M’sieu Dalbor?” I questioned. 

He nodded, at the same time glancing back 
toward his men. 

“I am Jean Le Bossu,’’ I told him. 

At my words the sheriffs manner changed 
completely. In a flash the smile that I had looked 
for appeared, wrinkling up his face into innumer¬ 
able tiny lines. It was a smile of friendliness 
and good will. I made haste to seize his out¬ 
stretched hand. 

“So you are indeed Jean Le Bossu?” he 
greeted me. “Believe me, I have long wanted to 
meet you. When I tell you that your friend, 
Pierre Larue, is my own first cousin, you will 
perhaps understand.” 

Here was luck wholly unexpected. Some time 
before I had helped Pierre Larue in the matter 
of a box of goldpieces hidden by a miser uncle 
in the swamp. And now the deed was bearing 
good fruit. 

Taking advantage of the sheriff’s mood, I 
quickly informed him of my search, and of my 
261 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


final discovery. WTien I was through his broad 
ruddy face was wrinkled again—this time with 
lines of uncertainty. 

‘T am sorry, my friend,” said he slowly. 
‘A\Tiat you say sounds very well but, after all, it 
is only a theory. Arrest comes first, theories 
afterward- I should never have left my posse. 
WTien you called to me just now, you declared 
titat you had found this fantastic murderer of 
yours.” 

“And so I have, M'sieu,” I insisted. “As for 
the laying of my hands upon the criminal, that 
should prove no difficult task. Already I have 
covered a part of the painted woods. In addition 
I now have a definite and peculiar object to 
search for. It will take little time.” 

At this he showed a faint revi\"al of interest. 

“Perhaps so,” he admitted. “But there is my 
duty. I can not let the sun go down with my 
prisoner cornered, yet uncaptured.” 

“It stin lacks several hours to simset, M'sieu,” 
I pointed out to him. “x\lso you have your 
262 


THE PROOF 


launch in which to cross quickly to the swamp. 
Give me this time, and the assistance of a second 
pirogue, and I will ask no more. Just now you 
expressed an appreciation of my service to your 
cousin. Would you have me desert this other 
friend of mine in a moment of far greater neces¬ 
sity?’^ 

The sheriff thought a while, considering his 
line of attack. Then he turned to me with a nod 
of acceptance. 

*^Bien, Bossu,” said he familiarly. “You shall 
have your chance. This is an ugly job at best. 
Choose a helper, and I will take Voltaire Bon 
who, of all men, should be the best fitted to pass 
upon your discovery. The others I will leave 
here on guard under the command of this Ledet 
of yours. He is a good man, Ledet. Some day 
you will find him in charge here.” 

My thanks were as brief as they were earnest. 
Each moment now was of inestimable value. 
Choosing Trappey as my assistant, I made, be¬ 
fore the sheriff hurried off, a final request. This 
263 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


was that he would not disclose the exact identity 
of the murderer to Voltaire Bon. 

M'sieu Dalbor’s smile of agreement suggested 
that I meant to make the most of my expected 
triumph. I could, however, have offered him a 
far more practical reason for my petition. Should 
the leader be informed beforehand, I knew that 
he would argue himself into that state of skepti¬ 
cism which contends that seeing is not necessar¬ 
ily believing. 

Thus the matter was arranged, and ten min¬ 
utes later we were in the launch, and headed for 
the swamp at a speed that dragged the pirogues, 
towed behind, half out of the water. At the edge 
of the trees we entered these pirogues, Trappey 
and the sheriff going in one, Voltaire Bon and 
myself in the other. Thus far the leader had 
endured his ignorance with an air of sullen re¬ 
sentment. Now, as the shadows closed around 
him, he became acutely suspicious. All the way 
to the painted woods he kept the sharp lookout 
of one who expects some sudden trick. 

264 


THE PROOF 


With the first pale scatter of lichen I quick¬ 
ened my stroke which, strive as I might, had 
flagged woefully. Forgetful now of ache of arm 
or sting of blister, I set a pace that soon brought 
us to the blaze at my former point of entry. 
Here, having headed Trappey north upon the 
outside of the belt, I set out along its inner edge, 
taking the same direction. 

The leader, savagely dumb, asked no ques¬ 
tions, nor even then did I relieve his curiosity. 
True, his keen well-trained vision would have 
aided me much in my quest, but I meant to keep 
him from his thoughts until the last moment. 
Through him it might be necessary to convince 
the sheriff, and I did not intend to lose any of 
the advantage that might be gained by the shock 
of sudden enlightenment. 

Therefore, trusting to myself for the inner 
edge, I again took the trail amid that wan huddle 
of painted trunks, my eyes once more scanning 
the floor of the swamp as I slipped along. This 
time, despite the vast scattered growth, my task 
265 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


was comparatively easy. Where scrapings and 
bruises had abounded, the condition that I now 
sought was exceedingly rare. Thus I was en¬ 
abled to work both swiftly and thoroughly. In¬ 
deed, my one fear was that the light would not 
last out my search. Already the swamp had be¬ 
come very dim and obscure, and the shadows 
were fast deepening into night. 

Five minutes, ten minutes, sped unsuccess¬ 
fully. Five minutes more, and the hope in my 
heart had changed to anxiety. Another quarter 
of an hour, and I had lost the last vestige of my 
new-born confidence. And then, just as the 
dark mocking face of despair peered out at me 
from the thickening gloom, there came a sudden 
hail. 

I have sometimes thought it unfair that, after 
all my stress and struggle, Trappey should have 
been the one to find it. And yet, having discov¬ 
ered the crime, it was, perhaps, only consistent 
that he should now detect its author. At all 
events there was only relief in my answering 
266 


THE PROOF 


shout, a relief so patent that it broke down the 
sullen barriers of the leader's reserve. 

“Bossu, Bossu?" he cried as we shot forward. 
“They have found him?" 

I waited until we had swung alongside. 

“They have found it, M'sieu," I corrected. 
“Behold now the murderer of your nephew." 

It was only a blasted knee, and the bolt that 
had shattered it had also riven the parent trunk 
into a tangle of splintered limbs and branches. 
This tangle, hanging low, cast a dense shadow 
just beyond the knee, blotting out the difficulties 
of the way ahead. Nature, calling the lightning 
to her aid, had set a skilful trap. Poor, drunken 
Duron had proved an easy victim. 

For a space we four stared silently—mute with 
the horror of our find. There was something un¬ 
speakably wanton and repellent about that 
jagged length of cypress, thrust starkly up from 
the dark waters of the swamp. One felt that, 
now that its work was finished, it should at least 
have had the decency to withdraw itself into the 
267 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


foul depths from which it had sprung. It was as 
though Nature, not satisfied with her toll of a 
human life, was brandishing her naked weapon 
in the face of mankind. 

As for this weapon, it could not have been 
fashioned more cunningly to its purpose. Broad, 
long, rough-edged and firmly pointed, it com¬ 
bined the cut of a knife with the thrust of a 
spear. So stout was it that, save for its blood¬ 
stains, it bore few marks of its recent dreadful 
employment. Here and there hung a broken 
sliver. The original bristle of fine filaments pe¬ 
culiar to shattered bark and wood had been 
smoothed away. At first I could discover noth¬ 
ing else. 

Then, peering closer, I saw something that had 
been obscured by distance. This was that, of 
the knee’s jagged edges, one was marred for half 
its length by the faint irregular thread of a crack. 
Searching downward along this crack, I discov¬ 
ered at its lowest point of division, a tiny spot 
of a shade far darker than the surrounding blood¬ 
stain. 


268 


THE PROOF 


At once I straightened up. I was through, and 
in a manner beyond my wildest hopes. 

The sheriff was the first to speak. He was no 
woodsman and, save for the knee, those evi¬ 
dences of a devilish ingenuity so plain to the 
rest of us, were wholly lost on him. 

“Well, Bossu,’’ he questioned, “is this what 
you have been looking for? If so, what have you 
to say for yourself?’’ 

“Only this, M’sieu,” I replied. “At some un¬ 
known hour yesterday afternoon Blaise Duron, 
in drifting about the swamp, approached this 
spot. He was drunk, and careless, and he did 
not pick his way. Running blindly into the 
shadow cast by that low-hanging tangle of 
branches, he jammed his pirogue. If you look, 
you will see the marks upon the knees. 

“Next, rising to his feet, Duron sought to push 
himself free with his paddle. The pirogue was 
jammed tightly. Duron pushed with all his 
might. Suddenly his unsteady feet slipped from 
under him, and he fell backward and outward 
269 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


with all the force of his great weight. That 
sharpened knee there, was waiting to receive him. 

‘^Afterward, freeing himself in some manner 
from his terrible impalement, he managed for 
one agonized instant to regain his feet. As he 
fell again, this time forward, and in the direction 
of the pirogue, his body was caught and sup¬ 
ported by the edge of the craft. How he man¬ 
aged to wriggle inside with that ghastly wound 
in his back, God alone knows. That he did so 
has been proved by his position when found. 

“Of this much I am convinced and, if you will 
observe how I have placed my pirogue, you will 
see that, dying as he was, Duron could scarce 
have regained his craft in any other manner. 
Through his struggles to roll inside, the pirogue 
was released. The current did the rest. 

“So that is all, M'sieu, and, as I prophesied to 
you at the camp, our search has been neither long 
nor difficult. Being squat and stout, these knees 
are impervious to all ordinary blows. I knew that 
I would have few shattered ones to choose from.’^ 
270 


THE PROOF 


I paused, and the sheriff turned to Voltaire 
Bon. “And what have you to say to all this, 
M’sieu?” he questioned. 

Before replying, the leader raised a hand to the 
scatter of cold perspiration which, during my re¬ 
cital, had broken out upon his brow. 

“I say that this is devil’s work,” he answered 
hoarsely. “Nevertheless, there is a ring of truth 
to Bossu’s words.” 

Drawing my knife, I again bent to the knee. 
Then, forcing open the crack in its edge, I pried 
carefully at the dark spot that I had discovered, 
until it fell into my waiting hand. It was, as I 
knew, a tiny fragment torn from Duron’s blouse; 
and the crack, holding it close, had preserved its 
identity. Save where its outer fringe had come 
in contact with the blood, it was wholly un¬ 
stained. There was no denying that minute bit 
of cottonade, with its peculiar bluish hue. It 
was the ultimate proof. As I held it out to the 
leader, I felt a pang of regret at the unnecessary 
strain that I had put upon his forbearance. 


271 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘'And how do my words ring now, M'sieu ?” I 
inquired. 

One swift look Voltaire Bon cast upon 
the fragment. Then, catching an ax from the 
bottom of the pirogue, he sprang out into the 
shallow water. Twice he swung, with the skill 
of years, and at the second stroke the destruction 
of the knee was made complete. And then, as 
the stained evil thing wallowed harmlessly away 
upon the oily current, the leader answered, his 
tone now one of absolute conviction. 

“Your words ring as true as my blade, Bossu.” 

The sheriff signed to Trappey. Convinced 
without the fragment, he had only awaited this 
verdict. 

“Come then,'' he ordered briskly. “Let us get 
out of this, and at once. Our duty is now to the 
living, not the dead." 

“Yes," agreed Voltaire Bon. “They have suf¬ 
fered much, Jeanne and Fagot." And he added 
to himself as he seized his paddle— “I can only 
try to make it up to them in the years to come.” 

272 


THE PROOF 


So we hurried away from that accursed spot, 
never ceasing dip or stroke until we had arrived 
at the edge of the trees. Again the leader made 
the journey in silence, but once, as we slowed 
down to encircle a fallen trunk, I felt the touch 
of his hand upon my shoulder. 

That was all, yet it was enough. Coming from 
Voltaire Bon, it meant far more than any spoken 
praise. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


SUNSET 



HANKS to M’sieu Dalbor’s thoughtful¬ 


ness, the siege of the cabin was raised 


some time before our arrival at the camp. In¬ 
deed, scarce had he gained foothold upon the 
launch before, drawing his revolver, the sheriff 
fired three rapid shots. It was a signal of suc¬ 
cess arranged with Ledet, and when shortly after 
we swung in to the landings, the grim half-circle 
had resolved itself into an impatient cluster of 
curious men. 

We landed amid an excitement that is spoken 
of in the swamp to this day. Shouted questions 
blended with shouted answers into a mighty up¬ 
roar of sound—an uproar whose dominant note 
was one of relief. As the sheriff had said, it had 
been an ugly job, and these rough but kind- 


274 


SUNSET 


hearted swampers were only too pleased at being 
freed from their responsibility. 

''Dieu, M’sieu Dalbor,” cried honest Ledet, his 
voice still trembling from his recent ordeal. 
‘‘That third shot of yours seemed an hour in 
coming. This man hunting may be all right, but 
not when your prey is a lame old father.” 

With his words relief changed to sympathy— 
the quick generous sympathy which marks the 
brotherhood of the wild. “Fagot, Fagot!” rose 
the cry. Then, as I hurried away with my glad 
tidings, the men, led by Voltaire Bon, swarmed 
up the slope behind me. 

At the cabin I found Fagot alone and unarmed 
upon his little front porch. Ledet had shouted 
to him after receiving the sheriffs signal, and he 
had only waited to make sure that it was no 
trick before showing himself. There were tears 
in his eyes as I sprang up the steps and, although 
his lips moved, his big voice was unable to utter 
a sound. As I gazed at him it was as though 
the menace of the past day and night had never 

275 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


been. His trouble over, the old man had relapsed 
quite naturally into the kindly gentle creature 
that I had always known. 

And yet, when, after my words of explanation 
and cheer, the others flocked about him, he bore 
himself with an air of quiet dignity and self-jus¬ 
tification that would not have sat ill upon the 
leader himself. 

“Welcome, my friends, since you come in 
friendship,” his attitude said. “I am glad that 
all has turned out well, but I do not regret my 
action. Should the necessity arise, I would do 
the same again.” 

So, leaving Fagot to the congratulations of the 
camp, I went inside in search of Jeanne. The 
square front room was deserted, and when—hav¬ 
ing removed its protecting mattress—I entered 
the little refuge in the rear, I found it untenanted 
also. But the open window with its hastily de¬ 
molished barricade had its story to tell, and slip¬ 
ping through it, I hurried away to the cabin of 
the unmarried men. 

At the sick room I found that I had not erred, 

276 


SUNSET 


and that Jeanne, upon her father’s first call of 
deliverance, has hastened to her injured lover. 
She sat now in her old place beside the bunk, 
flashing about at my entrance to stay me. 

‘‘Quiet, quiet, Bossu,” she warned. “He has 
but this moment fallen asleep.” 

“He is conscious, then?” 1 asked. 

“He is saved,” she breathed joyously. “His 
eyes were open when I came in and, as I bent 
over him, he spoke my name. And they had left 
him alone. Think of it, Bossu. I was not a mo¬ 
ment too soon.” She paused, rising to her feet, 
and as she came toward me her arms were opened 
wide. “Ah, Bossu, I am so happy, happy,” she 
murmured. “And what can I say to you to whom 
I owe it all?” 

But I, foregoing the beauty of my reward, led 
her back whence she had come. True, I knew 
little of a maiden’s heart, but there were some 
things that I could understand. 

“Later, Jeanne,” I whispered. “This is your 
hour, and it will never come to you again. Let 
it, at least, be unshadowed by the past.” 

277 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Then I left her with her lover, but somehow I 
could not return to the excitement and confusion 
of the cabin above. Instead I seated myself upon 
the short flight of steps in front, gazing out over 
the water to where the last crimson glory of the 
sunset was fading from the western sky. And as 
I gazed it seemed that I could read in the brief 
pageant of the approaching night, the story of 
the past, and of what was to come. 

For a space the horizon glowed blood red 
above the line of the trees,—that dark sinister 
line which marked the horror of the painted 
woods. Then red paled to gold, gold to gray, 
and suddenly the swamp became as vague and 
remote as some land of dreams, in the hush of 
the twilight. 

And then, flashing out upon the grayness, 
there came the soft twinkling light of a star. 
High it swung in the infinite spaces overhead, 
and its tiny lamp burned brightly, like some 
beacon of peace, above the vast stretch of the 
sleeping cypress. 


278 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


OUTSIDE 

O NCE conscious, Var recovered quickly. 

Save for the healing of his wound, it was 
now only a matter of getting back his strength 
again. And this he did in the shortest time—as 
who would not with such a girl as Jeanne wait¬ 
ing for him ? 

The morning after my search of the swamp he 
sent for me, smiling Jeanne from the room after 
I had come inside. When he spoke it was with 
the slow uncertainty of one who, having much 
to say, is doubtful of the power of his words. 

‘‘Bossu,” he began, “back there, on the bayou, 
I did you a small service. In return you have 
done me a great one—the greatest of all. What 
can I say to you?” 


279 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


“You have said it/’ I replied. “Already my 
eyes have told me far more than my ears could 
ever learn. For the rest, do I not also owe my 
life to Jeanne? Your happiness is mine. It will 
be something to think of in the days to come.” 

“As you wish,” said he. “I see that you know. 
What more can I ask? And now for this busi¬ 
ness of the hearing. Jeanne has told me some, 
but not all. I must know where I stand, Bossu.” 

Going back to that night of disaster, I told 
him; picturing Jeanne’s proud defiance, Duron’s 
drunken bullying, the swift futile rage of Vol¬ 
taire Bon. When I had finished, Var lay for a 
while in silence. Yet the look in his eyes went 
far to explain the slow clenching and unclench¬ 
ing of his hands. 

''DieuT he muttered finally. “And to think 
that, all the time, I lay here unknowing and help¬ 
less. Yet perhaps it was for the best. It is over, 
Bossu, all of it. I have spoken of it for the last 
time.” 

“That is right,” I agreed. “The past is done. 
As for the future—” 


280 


OUTSIDE 


But the future was a matter that could not well 
be discussed without Jeanne. And, once she had 
been called in, it became quickly apparent that, 
of all times, the present mattered most of all. So 
I slipped away, giving them that relief which, 
under such circumstances, is like the withdrawal 
of a multitude. 

In the days that followed the affairs of the 
two were fully arranged. Var, upon the recov¬ 
ery of his strength, would go back to his work 
again. This, however, he would not do under 
the direction of Voltaire Bon. He and Jeanne 
were about to start a new life, and they wished to 
begin it as far away as possible from those 
scenes that would remind them of the past. 

As a youth Var had worked in one of the big 
cypress mills until, through sheer restlessness, he 
had exchanged the whine of the saw for the ring 
of the ax. Now that he had settled down, he 
meant to return to his former employment. The 
wages were good, and there was always a chance 
for promotion. He might become a foreman 
some day. 

28 T 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


Also, in the cottages built by the cypress com¬ 
pany, there would always be room for Fagot. 
They were snug, those cottages. Their trim lit¬ 
tle porches seemed built for the convenience of 
tired old men who wished to dream in the sun¬ 
light. 

True to his words, Var said nothing of that 
encounter in the swamp. That he told Jeanne I 
am sure, but the inquiries of the others earned 
only a blank silence. Some men might have re¬ 
plied by pointing out that it is not nice to speak 
unkindly of the dead. Var was not one of them. 

Yet his forbearance did not pass unnoticed 
when, upon the morning of his departure, Vol¬ 
taire Bon bade him farewell in the presence of 
the assembled camp. It was at sunrise, and Var 
and Jeanne were about to set forth for Bayou 
Jules. There the cure would marry them, and 
afterward they would paddle by easy stages to 
the cypress mills. Fagot was to remain a while 
in my charge, that he might arrange his affairs, 
and give the two a chance to settle themselves. 

282 


OUTSIDE 


I will never forget that parting at dawn. The 
little camp shone fresh and clean in its bath of 
dew, and out upon the open water the mist clouds 
rolled and billowed like great fleecy mountains 
of carded wool. The sky smiled pure and flaw¬ 
less, and the birds sang as at the promise of 
spring. 

True, Nature was only arousing herself for the 
business of another day, but to this particular 
awakening she seemed to bring an added charm. 
It was as though the whole swamp was calling— 
“God speed you.” 

The two stood beside their laden pirogue, Var 
very upright and manly, Jeanne all flushed and 
rosy with the most beautiful shyness that I have 
ever seen. The camp-folk passed before them in 
farewell, the men with a grip and a word, the. 
women with a kiss for the girl, and a brief whis¬ 
per of parting or advice. Then, last of all, came 
Voltaire Bon who, stooping, saluted Jeanne upon 
the brow. To Var he gave his hand, and when 
he spoke it was in a voice that all could hear. 

283 


THE PAINTED WOODS 


‘^Good-by and good luck, MarceV’ said he. 
‘‘Once, when you knew nothing, I did you a 
wrong. Now, although you know all, you do not 
complain. You are a man, Marcel, and should 
you ever tire of the mills, you will find a wel¬ 
come here.’’ 

It was a brave deed—the bravest perhaps in 
all the leader’s long career—and it did not go un¬ 
rewarded. A low growl of approval came from 
the men, and when a little later they cheered the 
departing couple, their voices held a ring of that 
confidence which is born of faith restored. 

Thus Jeanne left the swamp and, as she slipped 
from the shore into the morning, its tumbled 
whiteness was suddenly shot with the first rays 
of the rising sun. An instant they struggled 
against the twisting vapor, lighting the girl’s last 
backward glance as with some wonderful golden 
promise. Then the whirling clouds closed down 
again, and the pirogue was gone—outside. 


THE END 


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